








































































































I 











SURRENDER! 

The Romance of a 
Woman's Soul 




\ 












Love had kissed her and she was happy; she did not count the cost. 


































SURRENDER 

The Romance of a Woman's Soul 

ANONYMOUS 


FRONTISPIECE BY 

DELOS PALMER, Jr. 


NEW YORK 

THE MACAULAY COMPANY 


Copyright, 1924 

By THE MACAULAY COMPANY 


^ 6 J> 





<> 



Printed in the JJnit ed^States of Amer*rii 




“Life gives us only moments, and for 
those moments we give our lives.” 





FOREWORD 


I can readily believe that some there are who will 
be “shocked”—or profess to be—at this honest and 
courageous lifting of the curtain on a certain phase 
of the marriage contract. And yet, if they will 
forsake a purely hypocritical pose for the moment, 
I am certain that they will admit that humanity’s 
cause is best served by rending the shroud of igno¬ 
rance which, even in our enlightened civilization, 
still cloaks the most sacred of all relations between 
man and woman. 

Some one has said that it is impossible to argue 
with a person’s sense of impropriety. Happily, 
this is not true; even the most squeamish souls can 
be made to realize that prudery desecrates and out¬ 
rages sex; that it instills nothing of reverence for 
what God intended should be our most glorious 
possession. 

Truth and knowledge and beauty are usually in 
close association with each other. Surely the reader 
will find beauty here, and knowledge. He must 
decide if truth has been served. A woman, given 
every material comfort, safe in the love of a devoted 
husband, finds her life an empty shell. Selfishness 
and prudery are the underlying causes. Her hus¬ 
band’s love is given to another. The reader must 
condemn or pity as he determines; but no matter 
what his decision, he can hardly fail to be moved 
by the author’s sharply pointed argument. 


S. A. 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Husband and Wife. 11 

II. At “La Mouche” . , . . . . . . 35 

III. Louise. 60 

IV. Romance. 86 

V. The Birth of Davey ...... Ill 

VI. Deloryse—The Dancer.131 

VII. Father and Son ..162 

VIII. A Woman's Pride ........ 187 

IX. Woman to Woman . . . . . . . 207 

X. Sacrifice . . . ...... . . 228 

XI. A Mother's Heart . . . 3 . . . 260 

XII. Sanctuary L .- ^ ^ . . 283 





















l 















. 

■ Hr '.’i ■ v i-m,'* 

. 



















* 













PART I 





















) 



« 






































SURRENDER! 


i 

HUSBAND AND WIFE 

O N the morning of August the first, 1914, the 
traffic crawled up and down cold and sombre 
Victoria Street, congested by long lines of motor 
buses, heavily laden horse-drays, unwieldy motor 
vans, and innumerable taxicabs. The early sun 
blazing upon the high roofs had hardly reached the 
pavements, which still lay in the cool shadow of 
their heavily flanked sides, and were no less crowded 
than the road, as everyone hurried and pushed this 
way and that, with the detached and preoccupied 
air peculiar to dwellers in a great city, indifferent to 
anyone’s concerns except their own. 

At one end of this huge artery of London stands 
Victoria Station, with its constantly moving mass 
of vehicles. This terminus seethed with taxis con¬ 
veying loads of tired humanity, together with their 
trunks, mail-carts, and brown paper parcels; for it 
was the first of August, when by tacit consent every 
man who can throw away his black coat and starched 
11 


12 


SURRENDER! 


collar does so with a will, to stand hot and perspiring 
with his anxious wife and crying children at one or 
another of London’s outlets to the sea. The English 
clerk, apprentice, tradesman, and scavenger were 
going upon their annual holiday. 

At the other end of Victoria Street, Westminster 
Abbey, deserted by the tourist for the moment, till 
the Northerners pouring down with the money saved 
for their wakes should press through its honorable 
doors, offered a silent contrast to the organized chaos 
of Victoria Station. 

In the middle, between the chaos and the silence, 
on the right hand side of Victoria Street, as a man 
walks toward the Abbey are the officers of Anson 
Pond and Company, Limited, engineers and steel¬ 
workers. 

The silent majesty of the Abbey seemed to cast a 
shadow that morning upon these offices, where every 
clerk and accountant who could be spared had rushed 
to join the throng of holiday makers. This month 
was the only quiet month those officers knew in the 
revolving year. 

Nevertheless, David Anson-Pond, the managing 
director and biggest shareholder in Anson-Pond and 
Company, Limited, in spite of the fact that the 
shooting season began the week after next, and 
every business man who had a tenth of his income 
had left his desk, or looked in upon his office casually 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


13 


for but two hours in the day, was sitting before his 
desk at half-past ten that morning, as he had sat for 
the bulk of the preceding ten years since his father's 
death, when he had taken into his extremely capable 
hands the reins of government of those vast interests. 

The business had continued to flourish under 
David; their five per cent debentures issue, raised 
for the purpose of acquiring still more capital, stood 
at 102, and the shareholders patted themselves on 
the back every six months when the half yearly 
dividends accrued, because they regarded themselves 
as very clever men in knowing and turning to profit 
the brains of David Anson-Pond and his various 
lieutenants. 

The heavy roll top desk before which sat this 
maker of comfortable incomes for astute investors, 
was scattered with typewritten letters and docu¬ 
ments containing schemes, offers, tenders and accep¬ 
tances; the walls of a dull red wallpaper and half- 
panelled in heavy oak were hung with a few care¬ 
fully chosen prints and sectional drawings, whilst 
upon a small square Sheraton table near the window 
there stood in a wooden frame a photograph of a 
woman. A revolving chair and several other leather- 
covered ones completed the furnishing of this office, 
which had tended to become more and more the mor¬ 
ganatic home of its inhabitant as time urged on the 
passage of the years. 


14 SURRENDER! 

Clean-shaven, with his black hair carefully 
brushed and parted at the side, David Anson-Pond 
was engaged in just looking out of his window 
towards the gray walls of the opposite building; his 
hands, the long thin sensitive hands of a draughts¬ 
man, grasped the edge of his desk, and his gray eyes 
generally alight with a spark of humor, but now 
dulled with a sense of loneliness, moved restlessly 
around the arc of vision permitted by his window. 

The door opening in front of him caused his train 
of thoughts to become scattered as his secretary ad¬ 
vanced into the room with a few letters for signature. 

“Well, when are you off, Stevens?” he said to the 
young man as he took the typewritten documents 
from him and glanced through them preparatory to 
signing them. 

“To-morrow, if you can spare me, sir,” answered 
Stevens, gazing in his turn out of the window. 

“That’ll be all right,” answered David. “Where 
are you going?” 

“My wife thought of trying Sheringham this 
year, sir,” Stevens answered, “not quite such a crowd 
there, and the air’ll be good for Ethel.” 

David looked up from the first letter as he blotted 
his signature. 

“Talking of your daughter,” he said, “how is she 
now?” 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 15 

Much better, Fm glad to say, sir,” answered 
Stevens, her lungs are getting a great deal stronger/* 

“No fear of consumption?” asked David. 

“I don’t think so now, sir,” answered Stevens. 
“She’s doing fine.” 

“Good! I’m glad to hear that; you take care 
of her, Stevens, children are a great thing—a great 
thing!” said David, giving him back the signed let¬ 
ters. “They’re our salvation,” and his eyes rested 
for a moment on the photograph of the woman on 
the Sheraton table. 

“I suppose, sir,” said Stevens diffidently, as he 
moved towards the door, “this European mess won’t 
lead to anything?” 

David shook his head slowly. 

“I shouldn’t think so,” he answered. “Probably 
be another Agadir; we’re more civilized in 1914 than 
we used to be; anyhow, you needn’t worry; you’re 
not in the Army. I hope you’ll spend a pleasant 
holiday. And,” continued David, “buy your little 
girl anything you like up to five pounds from me.” 

“Thank you, sir,” answered Stevens; “it’s very 
good of you to take such an interest in Ethel.” 

David nodded slightly to him by way of dismissal 
and Stevens went out, closing the door gently behind 
him. 

David’s gray eyes turned again towards the photo¬ 
graph on the Sheraton table, and pushing back his* 


16 


SURRENDER! 


chair, he walked over to it, and taking it in his hands, 
held it towards the light. 

His lips pursed themselves together as he looked 
critically upon the features of Miss Vesta Kennard 
that was, over twelve years ago. A handsome, fair 
woman, but suggestive of marble, so cold, so impene¬ 
trable, so unapproachable did she look; he smiled 
to himself as he tapped the frame reflectively with 
his finger. Smiled to think how, at thirty-one years 
of age, he had groveled to this woman, following her 
about and imagining her coldness and austerity to be 
the pride of her virtue. Smiled to think how he 
had thought himself blessed beyond other men when 
Miss Vesta Kennard, in a burst of condescension, 
had consented to marry him one day in July, when 
the season at its wane, appeared to offer her no 
fresh amusements. Smiled to think of the pomp and 
ceremony of the display at St. Margaret’s where 
most of the women, dressed by Paquin, Worth and 
Callot, vied with most of the other women dressed 
by Reville, Lucille and Isobel in rustling their dresses 
delicately into pews, and discussed behind prayer- 
books opened by chance at the Burial of the Dead, 
the Confirmation Service, or the Dedication of 
Priests, the merits of Miss Vesta Kennard and Mr. 
David Anson-Pond as they stood together facing 
the altar and the robed priest. Smiled to think of 
the vows so glibly spoken, so imperfectly under- 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


17 


stood, and so methodically broken, which sworn by 
society of this kind form but another excitement to 
stimulate the jaded palates of those who fly from 
one pseudo-sensation to another to provide at the 
end of their lives, if lived according to plan, an op¬ 
portunity for a few tears from their fellow sojourners, 
the marks of which are hastily covered by powder 
lest anything natural mar their most unnatural faces. 

With a sigh he put down the photograph of Miss 
Vesta Kennard that was; for the past twelve years 
he had had to deal with Mrs. Anson-Pond that is. 

From the very first moment of their married life 
he had found out that the marble calmness and 
queer austerity which he had regarded during their 
engagement as being a sign of her virtue were noth¬ 
ing more than her real nature. He, as her husband, 
was to be allowed no more than he as her fiance to 
break down the barriers with which she had sur¬ 
rounded herself. 

Vesta Anson-Pond, he discovered, was only con¬ 
cerned with one thing, the sensations of the social 
round. She would have been the first one to deny, 
with lips only slightly parted in the process, that 
she had married David Anson-Pond for his money; 
but she didn’t marry him for love, as David under¬ 
stood it, nor for position, because she had had as 
good a one of her own. 

Their lives during those twelve years had become 


18 SURRENDER! 

utterly stereotyped: she flashed from racing to 
dinners, from dinners to ‘first-nights’, from ‘first- 
nights’ to Cowes, from Cowes to Scotland, from Scot¬ 
land to the Riviera; and he flashed when he felt like 
it; and when he was tired of flashing he returned to 
the empty house in South Audley Street, or the 
leather-covered chairs of the “Eaton” club, and pick¬ 
ing up a book or a magazine, he read of women who 
did not exist, but whom he wished he had married. 

David could have reconciled himself to his wife’s 
mode of living, and even have enjoyed some part of 
it, had she given way to him on the only question 
which really stirred his nature and pulled his heart¬ 
strings to a point where life seemed a sorry institu¬ 
tion and death a pleasing companion. For early in 
his married life he had discovered that Vesta had no 
intention of putting herself out or interfering with 
her mode of living for the sake of having children. 
In spite of all his persuasion and all his entreaties 
she had set her face definitely against the thought; 
and she had won. 

The mockery of it filled his life with a hopeless 
bitterness, a great business with enormous oppor¬ 
tunities; a home filled with all the comforts of 
luxury, and no one to succeed to such a heritage; his 
heart ached with its sense of loneliness. The dust¬ 
man probably had ten children to fight over his cart 
of garbage; the clerk had four to five to wear his 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


19 


black coats when he had worn them out himself; 
but he had no one to lighten the burden of his 
years, and no laughter to bring back his youth, 
i The day advanced itself to lunch-time before 
David, having tidied the litter on his desk, locked it 
up, and, taking his hat and stick from the stand in 
the comer, prepared to leave the business under 
one of his juniors whilst he took his holiday in 
Scotland. He paused as he closed the door of his 
office, and then, walking across the passage, he 
entered another door on the opposite side. 

“I’m leaving now, Arthur/’ he said to Arthur 
Harris, a man of fifty, although his junior. 

; “Right,” answered Harris. “See you again end 
of September, I suppose; I shall get away myself 
when Freddie comes back.” 

“Good,” said David, “and if anything important 
turns up, just let me know. I shall be at Berwick 
'as usual,” he added wearily, “or if we move on farther 
north, I’ll let you know. So long.” And a moment 
later David Anson-Pond turned into Victoria Street 
to begin his holiday. 

The newspaper boys beginning to get a firm grip 
on the European crisis were yelling their lungs out 
with unexpected phrases; and the insistence of their 
cries caused Anson-Pond to buy a paper as he 
strolled past Victoria Station on his way to the Mall 
and his club. 


20 SURRENDER! 

Unpronounceable names were marshalled in heavy 
black type across the top of the news sheet, but as 
yet no inkling that the impending crisis was to draw 
England in its train had penetrated David’s mind. 
At the club he ran up against Travers-Smith, of the 
Brigade, however, who informed him that everything 
was not quite so rosy for England as it looked. 

I don t want to say anything,” said Travers- 
Smith, as he ordered a glass of port with his Stilton, 
“but I shouldn’t be surprised if we took a hand: of 
course, if we do, the thing’ll be over in six months.” 

Of course,” assented David, “a year at the most; 
but,” he had added almost regretfully, “I don’t sup¬ 
pose it’ll come to anything.” 

“Well,” said Travers-Smith, “I shouldn’t be sur- 
prised; on the other hand, you may be quite right.” 

After lunch David read the papers, skimming 
through the picture ones where his wife appeared in 
various groups at various places, and having fallen 
asleep from boredom, woke up at four o’clock to 
betake himself home for tea at his large house in 
South Audley Street whither Vesta had returned that 
morning from a house party at Goodwood, in order 
to superintend the packing of their various trunks 
preparatory to a month at North Berwick. 

But when he arrived home, the butler informed 
him, in answer to his question, that his wife had 
Lady Hermoine Stoop, Mrs. Onslow, and two other 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


21 


ladies with her, at which David turned into his own 
study instead of the drawing-room, and ordering his 
tea to be brought to him there, asked to be told when 
the ladies departed. 

“When,” said he to his wife, after her friends had 
gone, “do you propose to go North?” 

“I thought the fifth would be as good a day as any 
other, dear,” she answered. “We can dine quietly 
at home on the fourth, and then the journey won’t 
be so tiring; you might see that James packs all 
your things properly; last time, you remember, he 
let you go away without a razor strop. And don’t 
forget, David,” she added, as she made her way 
towards the door, “we are dining to-night at a 
quarter to eight at the Edens, and not eight o’clock; 
so don’t be late. I can’t understand why time 
should go in quarters of an hour, it always upsets 
everything”; with which inconsequent remark Vesta 
disappeared to dress at half-past six. 

During the next two days the war cloud which had 
appeared in the minds of the unknowing and 
uncaring public to be no bigger than “a man’s 
hand” grew and increased until the whole sky had 
become leaden with a dull foreboding, and it became 
certain to those people who at last began to give the 
matter their earnest consideration that nothing ex¬ 
cept a miracle could keep England out of the crisis. 

At the age of forty-three, from the depths of a 


22 


SURRENDER! 


comfortable chair at the club, or in his own study 
at South Audley Street, David was inclined to view 
the prospect from the altitude of a superior being; 
England had an army; it was here to fight, and paid 
for doing it, and the job was not the concern of him 
or any other black-coated civilian. His job was to 
raise his hat when the colors passed him and sing 
a God Save the King” on any occasion on which it 
might be demanded of him; those were his private 
ideas on the world situation until Travers-Smith 
who had met a man with brains the day before, and 
remembered something of what he had heard, put a 
different complexion upon those thoughts on the 
afternoon of August 4th. 

Rising relucantly after his conversation with 
Travers-Smith, he made his way down the crowded 
streets towards his house; everywhere there was 
fever, bustle and excitement. Travers-Smith had 
told him that war was certain and that the clever 
man behind his blue glasses and Hapsburg lip had 
informed him it would last three years at least; 
that France was not prepared, that we might easily 
be beaten, that our army was hopelessly insufficient, 
even with Haldane's auxiliaries, and that no man at 
forty was too old to do something. 

As he strolled home, that phrase kept repeating 
itself in his mind; he could do something. Travers- 
Smith had suggested his applying for some organizing 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 23 

job in England in connection with shipping or 
ordnance. At first thought he had jumped at this; 
he could organize anything from dervishes to 
donkeys; and he had intimate friends among the 
gods in the War Office. 

But on second thoughts, which came flooding and 
bursting into his mind, as he strolled sedately home, 
he felt this would only be a repetition of his peace 
time job—he found himself already thinking in 
terms of War and Peace—he was sick and tired of 
his peace time job, not the work of it, but the leisure 
of it. 

He took off his hat and wiped his head with his 
handkerchief as the great idea began to take shape. 
He wouldn't rest content with that; he might 
organize things in France, he might fight; he could 
fight, he’d like to fight someone or something. The 
Germans? Well, he’d never liked them anyway: 
gross feeders, with their fat women. 

Here was escape. Vesta couldn’t follow him to 
France with her infernal social activities: the nearest 
she would get would be the Riviera or Dinard. 
Suppose that fellow with the blue glasses and the 
Hapsburg lip was right and it lasted three years: it 
might not for him; he might be killed. Did it 
matter? 

He opened the door of his house as the thought 


24 SURRENDER! 

recurred through his mind. Did it matter? Did it 
matter? 

He realized with a shock as he looked at his watch 
'that he had stayed later at the club talking to 
Travers-Smith than he had intended, and he 
hastened to dress for dinner. Vesta hated anyone to 
be late except herself. 

Vesta rambled on through dinner, “There was a 
talk at Lady Polkington’s,” she said, “this after¬ 
noon, that the war might really come; it would all 
be over in six months; perhaps even three; no need 
to put off their trip to Scotland; all the same it was 
very annoying because none of the Brigade would be 
available, they’d all been sent to their depots; the 
War Office was evidently in a great hurry. She 
personally didn’t think there would be a war. It 
was all so silly. What did he think? 

David sipped his glass of port with infinite relish ; 
he was pleased with himself. “I think,” he said, 
“that twelve o’clock to-night will see the outbreak 
of war.” 

Vesta looked up suddenly, wondering at the excited 
tone of his voice. “You sound rather pleased about 
it,” she said. 

“I am,” answered David laconically. 

“I don’t see,” replied Vesta scornfully, “that war 
is a matter for any person’s pleasure: men always 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 25 

take an inhuman delight in anything savoring of 
the bestial.” 

David contemplated her for a moment in silence: 
Vesta always applied that argument to anything 
connected with men which she did not like. She 
always put them as a class not far removed from the 
animal, and not as a class uplifted by any ideas 
which could be called human. Anything that 
savored of reality was to Vesta bestial, abnormal 
and to be avoided. Passion, Death, Blood and 
Poverty: away with them! 

“Have you ever thought,” he answered incon- 
sequently “of what life means to you or me?” 

“What on earth are you talking about?” said 
Vesta. 

David cleared his throat and repeated his ques¬ 
tion in a different form. 

“I mean,” he said, “do you realize that I have 
little left to live for?” 

Vesta smiled at him openly and then laughed 
outright. 

“Who has been telling you of the joys of a bachelor 
existence?” she said shrewdly. “I always suspect 
your club is a hot-bed of anti-feminism.” 

“Answer my question,” said David abruptly. 

“Oh, I’m to go through the third degree, am I?” 
she said. “Well, I don’t see you’ve much to com¬ 
plain about. A beautiful house, a first-class busi- 


26 


SURRENDER! 


ness, a holiday for which a lot of people would give 
.their ears, and,” she nodded gently, “a social and 
good-looking asset in myself, which is more than 
you deserve.” 

“And what,” said David, “shall I have in ten 
years’ time?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Vesta a trifle irritably. 
“The same, I suppose. Isn’t that good enough for 
you? Unless, of course, you want to go in for 
politics, pay £20,000 and get a baronetcy?” 

“I suppose that’d please you,” answered David 
sarcastically. 

“Well, Lady Carstairs rather grates on me,” 
replied his wife frankly. 

“She’ll have to grate,” said David. “Politics and 
pitch—I don’t touch either.” He paused and then 
continued. “And so you see,” he said gravely, “in 
ten years’ time, as it was practically ten years ago, 
my position will be the same. The world around 
one changes, and turns like a kaleidoscope; life ebbs 
and flows for some people; but for me it only ebbs. 
Like that infernal barometer in the hall, the hand 
points at “No change,” and you can see no way out.” 

“I don’t see why you want to throw all this morbid 
nonsense at me,” replied Vesta, in a tone of voice 
which suggested finality. “It’s not my fault you 
won’t go in for politics or buy a baronetcy, or do 
something different.” She pushed her chair back 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


27 


preparatory to going, but David held up his hand. 

“Stay a moment longer/' he said, “I feel to-night 
is going to be a night out of the ordinary for you 
and me, and I've got something I want to say to 
you." 

“Ah," said Vesta smiling, “I thought you were 
leading up to something, but if you think I'm going 
to let you off this trip up North to go fishing by 
yourself, you're mistaken. You've simply got to go 
with me." 

“To revert," answered David coolly, “to what we 
were saying; there is a sameness about my life, and 
about yours too; only you don’t happen to see it in 
the same light as I do. Neither apparently do you 
see the reason. But I'm going to tell you the 
reason. I've promised myself this to-day, and I am 
not denying that while it gives me pain, it also gives 
me satisfaction." 

Vesta stared at him as if he were some stranger 
thus addressing her; she did not know this David. 

“Life," continued David, “cannot go on unless 
there is youth; the seasons change, and are renewed, 
but you and I, we do not change, we are not renewed; 
you are content, but I am not." 

“What exactly do you mean?" asked Vesta coldly. 

“The reason why our lives have got to this im¬ 
passe," he answered, “is that we have no children." 

Vesta rose at once from her seat at the end of the 


28 


SURRENDER! 


table. “I did not know,” she said, “when you started 
this conversation, that this was to be the drift of it. 
I have told you before and I tell you again that I 
don’t want to have any children; they’re a nuisance, 
and I find I can get all the pleasure I want from 
children through those of other people.” She made 
a movement to rise—the subject having gone as far 
as she intended it, but David put up his hand per¬ 
emptorily. 

“I have not finished,” he said sharply, and leaning 
across the table he continued, “that is the only 
reason my life has assumed this aspect. Do you 
imagine that I take any pleasure in working for no 
one? Why should I trouble to go on building an 
edifice for no one to inhabit? What is to become of 
my money, my name, my heritage? I am sick and 
tired of working for the sake of working and of 
trailing around with you and your Pekingese; of 
listening while you talk blather about art with 
people who know even less about it than you do; of 
hearing your pet pianist play extravaganzas from 
hermaphroditic composers whom no one knows or 
wants to know. You are selfish, I can’t change that: 
if I had not revered you as a tin goddess perhaps 
things might have been different. I don’t propose 
to try and change you. I can’t force you to have 
children. I can’t change you, but I can change 
myself.” 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 29 

Vesta gripped the table with her hand as her 
reserve vanished beneath his outspoken words. 

“What do you mean by changing yourself?” she 
said harshly. “A woman, I suppose, you are all 
the same, you. . .” 

“No,” interrupted David, “not another woman; 
but I shan’t need to put up with this carcase you 
call life any longer after to-night. Do you realize 
that? Your world is going to be knocked down: 
your gods are going to be demolished; you will 
appear, you and your ridiculous set, for the fools 
that you are. But for once I need not stand with 
you; I can get out, and by God I am going out.” 
He waved his hand before her. “Out of this house; 
out of this life to something strong and big. ... I 
have nothing worth living for, but I have something 
worth dying for!” 

Vesta’s nerves relaxed, as she realized he did not 
intend to drag the house and her reputation in the 
wake of his proposed departure. 

“Oh,” she said calmly, “you mean to go and 
fight?” 

“Exactly,” answered David. “You need not fear 
the chorus of your croaking friends saying ‘Do you 
know he’s left her; he’s gone away; they say he 
drinks; I heard a woman from Nottingham’. . . It’s 
not anything like that; you may even get a certain 
amount of kudos.” 


SURRENDER! 


SO 

“If I don’t have to put up with a certain amount 
of ridicule/’she answered scornfully. “You! Fight! 
At forty! Of course you’re not serious?” 

“But I am,” said David, “never more serious in 
my life.” 

Vesta considered the position a moment. 

“But you might get killed,” she answered at 
length. 

“I might,” echoed David, “does it matter much 
if I do? I shan’t lose anything. I’ve got as far as 
I want to go; I’ve got no more ambition for myself.” 

“What about me?” answered Vesta. 

“Well, what about you?” said David brutally. 
“I have considered you long enough. I’m going to 
consider myself a bit now.” 

Vesta looked at him in silence, at a loss what to 
say or do. 

“You’ll think better of it in the morning,” she 
hazarded as she made her way towards the door, 
“and in any case there mayn’t be war, and then 
where will you be . . . or they may even refuse 
your services, if there is,” and opening the door she 
went slowly out. 

David followed her some fifteen minutes later, 
but he found the drawing room empty. Vesta had 
retired to her room. 

This did not surprise him, nor did he feel the 
slightest trace of compunction; for he knew her 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 31 

love of self-satisfaction was much too formidable to 
have been affected in the slightest degree by any of 
the outspoken things he had given utterance to at 
the dinner table—it was impervious to any thrusts 
of his. 

It was only her departure for Scotland to-morrow 
morning, and her determination to superintend per¬ 
sonally the packing of her various trunks, lest even 
one of the multitudinous articles she considered 
necessary to her comfort and well-cared-for appear¬ 
ance should be forgotten, and not he, which was 
responsible for her early retirement. 

So he went down to his study, where he en¬ 
deavored to concentrate on a book, but his 
thoughts refused to concentrate and as the night 
wore on, he began to pace impatiently up and 
down the room, his mind becoming entirely absorbed 
in the great question—war, or no war? 

“Suppose there shouldn’t be war,” he thought, 
“he had made a nice fool of himself!” That the 
War Office would accept his services he had ab¬ 
solutely no doubt. 

“What was forty? He was as strong and fit as 
any boy of twenty! Only . . . only he was sick 
. . . sick to death of this useless, empty existence 
he had to call ‘life’! He’d been stunned—he’d been 
in a stupor all these years—he’d . . .” 

Midnight struck ... the sound of every beat 


32 


SURRENDER! 


of the silver tongue of the ormolu clock on the 
mantelpiece penetrated David’s thoughts with the 
force of a sledge hammer as he counted every stroke! 

It ceased, but still David stood there, his gaze 
fixed steadily upon the gilt face of the clock . . . 
watching . . . waiting . . . “Tick, tock, tack,” said 
the clock softly, “tick, tock, tack . . . tick” . . . 
louder it grew, louder, louder . . . “tick, tock” . . . 
louder, much louder, “tack” ... it filled the room, 
it was deadening. “Tock . . . War” . . . “War, 
War, War . . . It-Is-War . . . It—Is—War!” said 
the clock. 

With a mighty effort he tore away his gaze and 
turned to face the room. Rushing across to the 
French windows he dragged them open and leant 
out . . . Nothing! . . . Silence, deep and pro¬ 
found. 

Quick footsteps—a light laugh . . . silence. The 
old familiar rumble of distant traffic . . . then 
silence, deep profound ... a long silence. . . . 

Everything as usual ... he was a fool! 

He turned from the window, and stood for a 
moment trying to collect his scattered thoughts, try¬ 
ing to recapture that “something” which had gripped 
him a minute before. . . A minute? No, it was 
hours . . . years ... a thousand years ago! 

He crossed to the mantelpiece and stared at the 
clock . . . nothing . . . nothing at all! Then 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


33 


faintly, very faintly . . . “tick, tock tack . . . tick, 
tock, tack!” . . . the silver tongue chimed the 
quarter. 

“A quarter past twelve!” exclaimed David with 
a start. 

In a stride he reached the desk, and snatched up 
the telephone, rattling the receiver continuously, 
and calling “Hello! Hello! Hello!” then in a hoarse 
agitated voice. 

“Give me Gerrard 3527!” he said. During the 
next few seconds his eyes travelling rapidly up and 
down the room seemed to rest on every object it 
contained, but they comprehended nothing at which 
they looked . . . only his ears were conscious. 
Presently came a voice. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello?” replied David sharply. “Are you 3527 
. . . Eaton Club?” 

“Yes!” came the answer. 

“That you, Charles?” said David. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Mr. Anson-Pond speaking this end . . . any 
news yet?” 

“Oh yes, sir; war’s been declared! ” 

“War?” shouted David, his eyes shining; “there’s 
no mistake—you are certain?” 

“Quite certain, sir,” came the emphatic, but de¬ 
ferential reply. 


34 


SURRENDER! 


“Thank you!” answered David steadily, and 
putting back the receiver he stood irresolutely for a 
moment, his hands still resting on the telephone. 
Suddenly, as though having come to some definite 
decision, he crossed the room with quick determined 
strides, and passing out into the hall made his way 
hastily upstairs to his room. 

Some ten minutes later Annie, Vesta's maid, came 
hurrying up the stairs and knocked excitedly on 
Vesta's door. 

“Well," said Vesta in an unconcerned voice, “did 
you find out any news?" 

“Yes, mum," answered Annie, her voice excited 
and her hands shaking, “war's been declared, and 
they say a German battleship’s been sunk in the 
North Sea." 

“Thank you," said Vesta calmly, “that will do. 
Good-night." With a firm hand as Annie closed the 
door, she switched off the light by her bed and 
turned over on her side. 

But she did not sleep. 


II 

At “la mouche” 

D AVID stepped out of his train at the Gare du 
Nord in the early Spring of 1916 and felt the 
sensations of relief and loneliness in his mind. 

It was the first time that the General had spared 
him from the Belgian front, whither, shortly after 
the retreat from Mons, he had been posted, and 
even now he had only succeeded in obtaining “Paris” 
leave. 

Since his acrimonious discussion with Vesta on 
the night of the outbreak of the Great War, he had 
looked back often to his disdainful wife who had left 
for Scotland the following day, war or no war, and 
dared him in so doing to carry out his boast of the 
night before. 

He had carried out that boast as a man who seizes 
a straw to support him in currents over which he has 
no control, and since that time he had often smiled 
to think that at any rate in so leaving England he 
had had the satisfaction of shocking Vesta from her 
usual attitude of studied indifference into one more 
35 


36 


SURRENDER! 


in keeping with the hectic rush which was spreading 
over the rest of the womankind at home. 

He had had no desire at the time to come to a 
definite break with her, but merely to get away from 
the rut into which the wheels of his lazy carriage 
had fallen; consequently, the moment he had ob¬ 
tained his position abroad, he wrote to her, calm 
and collected epistles, giving her as much detail of 
his work as he thought the Censor would allow. 

She, on her side, at the beginning, had not replied 
to his letters at all, and then later had answered 
them with the same regularity as he wrote, inquir¬ 
ing as a friend might do, if there were any ad¬ 
ditional comforts which she might send, or any¬ 
thing further she might do. So a modus vivendi 
had been established between them, which if no 
crisis intervened seemed likely to continue for the 
remainder of his sojourn. Vesta always referred to 
his absence as some kind of visit abroad he had 
chosen to pay without her, and as the full horror 
of the War had not yet really permeated her mind, 
and as she believed him to have taken up some safe 
position from which he could organize other po¬ 
sitions not quite so safe, her anxiety over his welfare 
did not unduly oppress her. 

“Hotel Meurice,” said David to the cabman, from 
force of habit rather than because he wanted to 
stay there; but Vesta and he had always stayed 


AT “LA MOUCHE” 37 

there whenever she was buying clothes, and the old 
address sprang to his lips. 

Later, when he had had a bath, dined and looked 
round the hotel, he found that the name of the 
hotel was the only familiar thing to him about the 
Paris which he had known before. 

He strolled out upon the boulevards and dis¬ 
covered that the old familiar faces had vanished; a 
heterogeneous mob of a very different variety now 
thrust itself past him, eddying this way and that. 
David knew Paris very well; he had been there often 
as a student and afterwards with Vesta, and he 
spoke French fluently, but he found no one with 
whom to talk. 

These remplacentes who represented all that was 
left of la vie parisienne were too busy to bother 
about him; the monde artiste, the beau monde, 
and the demi monde of his day had disappeared, 
and in their place were gathered men who were try¬ 
ing to forget things, and women who were deter¬ 
mined that they should. The doctrine of Omar 
Khayyam had been reborn, if indeed it had ever 
died, and the hands of the Persian touched his 
puppets lightly on the shoulder, whilst his voice 
bade them make the most of the small pleasures God 
had bequeathed to them. 

David therefore saw himself as a lonely outcast 
among this throng who were too busily engaged with 


38 


SURRENDER! 


themselves to be bothered with him, and like the 
lonely outcasts of many generations of Englishmen 
in Paris, he wandered instinctively towards the 
heights and laughter of Montmartre, only to turn 
back appalled at the depths to which the “heights” 
had fallen. How dead was “the life” of the once 
lighthearted quartier! 

They still laughed “up there” . . . the laughter 
that made the heart sick to hear . . . the black 
rimmed eyes still had the old invitation bodily dis¬ 
played; but the sparkle had gone—it was forced 
gaiety—hollow echoes of other days; it was a sad 
sight to see the makers of pleasure at their work. 
Montmartre, the heart of Paris, trying to live, was 
tragic to David that night; he turned and hastened 
across the Place Blanche, and soon reached the Bal 
Tabarin; he didn’t stop to see whether it was open 
—he didn’t care; he went on his way, back to the 
Boulevard—his first night of “leave” was a failure. 

He had hoped to find forgetfulness in Paris, and 
he had found memories hard to bear. 

Pulling himself together he decided to make one 
more effort to find some distraction, and instinc¬ 
tively turned to the Paris home of the Englishman’s 
folly—The Folies Bergeres. The entrance looked 
the same as in the old days, but the lights were dim, 
and the three men who sat together on the rostrum 
representing the management, the municipality of 


AT "LA MOUCHE” 39 

Paris, and the Society of Authors, seemed to have 
grown a hundred years old. 

His hand mechanically went into his pocket for 
money to buy his ticket, but was suddenly with¬ 
drawn as the thought occurred to him—"what was 
he doing there anyhow . . . this wasn't the sort of 
thing he wanted" ... he was conscious of that. 
"What did he want?" He didn’t know exactly, but 
subconsciously there was a craving in him which he 
wouldn’t or couldn’t acknowledge to himself for 
something real, human and honest, that he felt could 
not be found in that place. So he didn’t buy a 
ticket for the Folies Bergeres for fear of being bored; 
he thought probably boredom would be the begin¬ 
ning and end of this short "leave" in Paris, and thus 
depressed he again turned his back on the night life 
of the city of pleasure, and made his way towards 
the Grand Boulevard. 

As he turned the corner where the Cafe Viennoise 
faces the Boulevard he felt a gleam of satisfaction 
in seeing that the sign had been torn down, the 
place closed and in darkness; he hoped the German 
proprietor and staff were tasting the pleasures of 
an internment camp. 

"And I had better intern myself in bed at the 
Meurice”; he muttered to himself cynically giving 
a swish with his stick as if striking at fate, he 
turned up the Boulevard and bumped into a man. 


40 


SURRENDER! 


.There was a quick mixture of “sacre nom . . . milles 
pardons . . . Monsieur ” a mutual salute, then a 
cry of recognition from the stranger. 

“A la bonheur, Monsieur le Capitaine . . ” 

“De Rillac!” ejaculated David; “this is a bit of 
luck!” 

“I didn’t know you had become an embusque in 
Paris,” retorted de Rillac, laughing; and on David 
taking him by the arm, they were soon seated on 
the terrace of an adjacent cafe; “two whiskey sodas” 
were ordered and they talked. 

De Rillac was a Paris journalist and acted as one 
of the numerous correspondents on the British front, 
where he had met David and they had amused 
themselves by arguing about anything under the 
sun but the war; de Rillac, who before the war had 
been on the staff of the leading French theatrical 
journal Comoedia, told many amusing stories of 
the French stage, and David and he had become 
quite pally during the short time they had known 
each other. 

“Having a good time?” asked de Rillac. 

David shrugged his shoulders; de Rillac hesitated 
a moment and then speaking slowly as if not know¬ 
ing exactly how to express what was in his mind 
said— 

“Paris is very droll now, don’t you think?” 

David laughed. “Droll,” he repeated, “it might 


AT “LA MOUCHE” 41 

be Manchester or Glasgow, or Jerusalem if you like, 
but it isn’t Paris.” 

“Ca, c’est vrai!” said de Rillac sadly. “I am 
afraid Paris is spoilt for good; the people who have 
invaded it, the crowd you see passing us now, God 
knows where they come from, are ruining it, and 
some day these same people will boast of what they 
did for Paris in the War!” 

De Rillac tok a long drink of his whiskey and 
soda, as if to drown all thought of the gloomy 
picture he had drawn; but David’s reply did not 
give him much comfort. 

“I have had the same feeling ever since I arrived 
this evening,” he said, “in fact I was so depressed I 
was on my way back to bed, and bad dreams; what 
appalling dreams we can have when we seek oblivion 
in sleep!” 

De Rillac gave him a quick, penetrating look, 
then with a sudden shout of “Gargon, encore du 
whiskey soda!” he excused himself for what he 
thought an unfriendly gesture. 

“You have only a few days of ‘leave’,” he ex¬ 
claimed, “you are depressed ... you meet a friend 
who should cheer you up, and what does this fine 
friend do? He flutters these damn “Papillons 
Noirs” before your poor eyes and makes you a bigger 
hump. Enough! Enough! It is finished! I brush 
the shadow off your face; there is still a little bit of 


42 


SURRENDER! 


Paris left . . . the Paris that you loved in the old 
days. Ah! I will show you to-night/’ and as David 
protested though he was glad to have met de Rillac 
again and liked to hear him talk—de Rillac con¬ 
tinued. “Yes, yes! It must be to-night—to¬ 
morrow I go back to the rotten front. To-night 
... at once . . . after you have put the good 
Scotch in your English inside!” 

De Rillac seemed in a moment to awaken the old 
spirit of Paris, and David listened with a quickened 
interest, as de Rillac in his excitement, breaking into 
rapid French as if English was too slow to get him 
to his happy objective, told him . . . “Away from 
the Boulevard, in the outer circle of Paris is a little 
music hall called ‘La Mouche/ there many of the 
great revue artistes have begun their careers, and 
learnt their art by a long apprenticeship before they 
‘arrived’.” 

“I went there,” he continued, “trembling that it 
might not have survived the great shock, and that 
I would find it closed, but the gods were good to me 
. . . it was still open, and what is more wonderful, 
there I found a dream of a girl—an exquisite 
creature, who danced divinely.” He paused to take 
breath. “And Paris does not know her yet . . . 
even the public of La Mouche do not know . . . 
to them she is a dancer who pleases; they do not 
realize they are seeing a vision, a dream, for the 


AT “LA MOUCHE 3 


43 


few miserable francs admission. Only I know a 
great artiste has been born within the sound of the 
guns; and I will share my dream with you, my 
friend, and make you happy the first night of your 
‘leave’ in Paris, heint” 

David smiled weakly. 

“You are still down-hearted?” asked de Rillac 
incredulously; but before David could reply de 
Rillac started up, stopped a passing cab, pushed 
David inside, and with a sharp command to the 
driver—“La Mouche,” flung himself beside David, 
lit a cigarette, and sank back into the comer of the 
cab in silence. 

Arriving at the music hall he led David through a 
dingy corridor that had not known a coat of paint 
since the Second Empire, and it was not until they 
were sitting in a box into which the Director had 
shown them himself, that de Rillac broke the silence, 
when with a sweeping gesture of his right arm which 
seemed to embrace the whole house, he exclaimed 
dramatically “Voila!” 

David looked up, and round, and down, upon an 
audience of bonnes , ouvrieres, and their soldier 
sweethearts; they were not sitting as if they were 
in the public eye, that fact they utterly ignored; 
each Poilu had his arm round his adored one, and 
she nestled close to him; they were humming and 
David could hear snatches of the old loVe songs he 


44 


SURRENDER! 


hadn’t heard since his student days in Paris . . . 
“Les yeux de ma Lucie” . . . “UAmour toujours, 
la unit comme le jour”; he caught the refrain and 
hummed to himself— (( LAmour toujours”; it 
seemed to get in his blood just like the old days when 
his heart was younger; it pleased him that he was 
still young enough to catch the fever. 

De Rillac, covertly watching David, glowed with 
an immense satisfaction and pleasure as he watched 
the barriers of restraint breaking away, and a care¬ 
free expression begin to creep into the tired eyes of 
the lonely, sad faced English officer of an hour ago. 

David suddenly looked round and caught de 
Rillac’s eye; he nodded, smiling. 

“Yes, you are right! This is Paris!” said he. 

“Did I not tell you? They have forgotten the 
war, those children down there”; the journalist 
answered. “Rut wait! You have much to live for 
to-night . . . you will see . . . when the curtain 
rises . . . my dream will become your dream too; I 
will tell you something more ... I will take you 
behind to see her! Now don’t get excited.” 

“Oh, my dear fellow,” exclaimed David, “you can 
leave me out of it; I really can’t be bothered to 
start that sort of business; I don’t know how long 
I’ve got even; I may be recalled to-morrow. You 
see I’m only a dog on a lead, and may be pulled 
back any day by the General.” 


AT “LA MOUCHE” 45 

“All the more reason, my old cabbage, : ” replied de 
Rillac, “why you should enjoy yourself.” 

“Damn it,” said David laughing, “you French are 
all the same: women, women, women.” 

“What would you?” answered de Rillac, “without 
women the world’s a desert.” 

“And with them,” said David smiling, “it’s un¬ 
comfortably overcrowded”:—he paused and then 
continued, “but really, honestly, I’m not that sort; 
and anyway what about you?” 

“Oh, I,” said de Rillac, “I return to-morrow ‘damn 
it,’ as you say in your rotten language: and what do 
you mean by saying ‘I’m not that sort’.” He 
paused and pulled out a crumpled packet of ‘Cap- 
orals’ from his pocket, lit one and then continued. 
“You don’t have to be ‘that sort’; if you can get 
past an interchange of compliments with her, mon 
ami, you will be doing very well.” 

“Comment!” answered David surprised, “you are 
not offering to introduce me to a virtuous woman 
in this place?” He swept his hand around in front 
of him. 

“Sure,” said de Rillac in English, “that’s what I 
am about to do.” 

David smiled a superior smile. De Rillac nodded 
his head to emphasize his answer the better. 

“Yes, I am,” he went on, “I understand she’s urn 


46 SURRENDER! 

conquered. Marvellous, unbelievable, but true, ab¬ 
solutely true.” 

''Then she’s probably dull,” asseverated David. 

“We shall see,” said de Rillac. 

“You will,” said David, “I won’t.” 

De Rillac puffed furiously at his cigarette, “Nom 
d’un pipe, wait till you’ve seen her,” he answered, 
“and don’t be so sure of yourself. Am I an imbecile, 
heinf” 

“I’m sorry,” said David contritely, “I’m being 
thoroughly British and damnable; I’ll tell you what 
I’ll do; when she appears if I like the looks of her 
I’ll go round and be introduced by you. Content?” 

“Parjait!” De Rillae’s face lighted up. “That’s 
spoken like a friend,” he said, “and now it’s about 
time she appeared.” He glanced at the programme. 

“Ah, here we are, the next number,” he said. 
“Mademoiselle Louise Boucher.” David looked 
over his shoulder. 

“I thought she was doing a pas seul ” he said. 

“Ah! How impatient you are; she will,” said de 
Rillac. “What I have told you is true. She will 
‘arrive’ in Paris one day—she is the coming French 
dancer—ah! mon Dieu, we need one.” 

They had only a few minutes to wait till the 
curtain descended upon the funny man and went 
up again upon a ballet intime. De Rillac anxiously 
waited for her appearance, and David to became 


AT “LA MOUCHE” 47 

conscious of more than his usual interest in such 
things. The corps de ballet appeared in the first 
part of the dance. Suddenly de Rillac touched his 
elbow, and David leant a little forward in his seat. 
“She comes!” said de Rillac excitedly. 

He saw a girl whose dark hair hung down her 
back, and blessed with a figure and legs that made 
him wonder how she ever took shape in France; a 
joyous expression was on her face. The ballet was 
of the Bacchante genre , and she danced with a grace 
of movement, and a spirit of youth which portrayed 
a love of dancing for the sake of the art; poetry was 
in every movement, and plainly expressed her inner 
self; whilst the purity of her nature seemed un¬ 
touched by the sordid atmosphere of a Paris music 
hall. 

He knew that here was no chere amie of the 
management, nor protegee of any “vieux marcheur” 
but a woman who could attain and keep a position 
because she was an artiste. 

“Eh bien?” said de Rillac, when the curtain de¬ 
scended once again. “Une grande artiste, n’est ce 
pas?” David smiled at him. 

“You are right, my friend,” he answered, “she 
is not like the others; I will go round with you; I 
am curious, and very much interested.” 

De Rillac slapped his knee in evident enjoyment. 

“Oh, you English,” he said delightedly; “you are 


48 SURRENDER! 

the most droll people, you are so sincere, you hum¬ 
bug yourselves! Alors, we will wait till her second 
dance is finished, and then I will take you with me.” 

They waited till just before the end, when 
Mademoiselle Louise danced once again, and David’s 
interest remained unshaken; his bored expression 
had changed to one of lively expectation; she was 
different, there was no doubt about that, and he 
felt a keen desire to see her at close range, to hear 
her talk; if she was as charming then . . . 

“Allons y,” murmured de Rillac, interrupting his 
thoughts, “let us go!” They made their way 
through the jostling crowds in the promenade; 
David smiling to himself at the hurry of the young 
people to get away from the crowd to that myste¬ 
rious place for which lovers always seem to be mak¬ 
ing, and which has never yet been found by the un¬ 
initiated. 

“I wonder where they are all going?” he asked 
himself, as de Rillac led him down a little side street 
to the stage door of the music hall. 

“Would Monsieur please wait ‘un petit moment,’ 
and Mademoiselle would see him.” 

Ten minutes later she came to meet them. David 
noticed that she was very plainly, almost shabbily 
dressed, and wore a black velvet tam-O’-shanter 
upon her small dark head. 

“Monsieur de Rillac?” she said diffidently. 


AT “LA MOUCHE ; 


49 


“A votre service, mademoiselle” said de Rillac, 
kissing her hand, “permit me to present my friend. 
Monsieur le Capitaine . . he hesitated trying to 
remember David’s name, but for the moment it had 
escaped him; he couldn’t ask David his name after 
introducing him as a Triend’ ... it was very awk¬ 
ward . . . and to save his face he took the first 
English name that came into his head. 

“Le Capitaine” he exclaimed, “ah, these English 
names, they are so difficult to remember . . . er 
. . . Compton!” David, who had not appreciated 
de Rillac’s awkward predicament, hearing himself 
introduced as “Captain Compton” accepted the mis¬ 
take, which rather amused him, and bowed to the 
dancer. 

Louise Boucher smiled a little distantly at him. 
“I did not understand,” she replied, “that monsieur 
had a friend with him. I thought he wanted an in¬ 
terview for the press.” 

“And so I do, mademoiselle,” said de Rillac 
hurriedly, seeing that she was not overpleased at 
David’s presence. “Let us go round to the Cafe 
Souris ... if that is agreeable to mademoiselle?” 

“Certainly, monsieur,” answered Louise, “if you 
will permit a little moment to tell Henrietta to 
come and fetch me . . . shall we say in half an 
hour?” 

“Half an hour,” murmured de Rillac, “it is very 


SO SURRENDER! 

short time to spend in Paradise!” Louise smiled at 
him. 

“Life is short in Paradise!” she answered. 

“You are cynical, mademoiselle,” said David. 

“Monsieur speaks French?” questioned Louise, a 
note of surprise in her voice. 

“Monsieur le Capitaine,” said de Rillac, “speaks 
French like a Parisian.” Louise smiled genuinely 
at David for the first time. 

“In that case I will make it an hour,” she said, 
and turning swiftly she opened the stage door and 
called— 

“Henriette, Henriette, come for me au Cafe Souris 
in an hour’s time.” 

“Entendu, mademoiselle” answered Henriette 
from some unseen corner, and de Rillac and David 
with Louise between them walked towards the Cafe 
Souris. 

When they had seated themselves and de Rillac 
had ordered something, Louise Boucher turned her 
young and animated face towards de Rillac. 

“Eh bien , monsieur ” she said, “and what shall I 
say to you?” 

De Rillac laughed. “One does not say anything 
in an interview, one talks,” he said. “Tell me, 
mademoiselle, how long you remain at La Mouche?” 

Louise puckered her forehead. “I don’t know ex- 


AT “LA MOUCHE” 51 

actly,” she answered, “till the end of the run of this 
revue, at any rate; after that I don’t know.” 

“You were a great success to-night,” hazarded 
David, ‘ f as you deserved to be; you dance for the 
joy of dancing, at least that was the feeling you 
gave me, and your dancing expressed so much.” 

Louise scanned his face with a new interest. 
“Monsieur is very observant,” she said simply. “It 
is good to be understood. I live for my dancing!” 

The waiter brought a glass of hot milk and two 
bocks , whilst the talk drifted away from personal 
questions and dwelt upon the war, Paris, and other 
subjects of a general nature, till de Rillac setting 
down an empty glass paid the account and saluting 
Louise, prepared to take his leave. 

“You are not going already?” said Louise in dis¬ 
may, glancing nervously towards David. 

“But I must, mademoiselle,” answered de Rillac. 
“I return to-morrow morning to the front, and I 
must get my article about the new 'star’ written 
to-night; and besides, my friend,” he turned towards 
David, “will look after you.” 

David rose to say good-bye. 

“See you some time soon, I suppose,” said de 
Rillac, and then he whispered underneath his 
breath. “ Exquise!” 

David smiled at his enthusiasm. “Yes,” he replied 
quietly, “I’ll look after Mademoiselle till her escort 


52 


SURRENDER! 


appears on the scene,” and with a handshake for 
David and kissing Louise’s preferred hand, de Rillac 
threaded his way amidst the tables to disappear into 
the dimly lighted street beyond. 

Louise had not up to this point taken much in¬ 
terest in the man de Rillac had introduced to her as 
Captain Compton. To her he was simply an Eng¬ 
lish officer on leave in Paris; a type of man she had 
never met before; as far as it was possible to do in 
her profession her meeting with strangers was re¬ 
stricted to the theatre. 

She had, however, been impressed by his under¬ 
standing of her dancing; and seeing that there was 
half an hour to spend until Henriette made her 
appearance, she turned to study him with a new 
interest as he talked to her. 

She saw before her a man whose age was inde¬ 
terminate; she guessed about thirty-five, for the war 
instead of ageing David had made him look 
younger; the new interest had put a fresh vitality 
into his face and his flesh had hardened under the 
rigour of the life. “Good-looking,” she thought, 
“and of a kind disposition.” 

Louise appeared to David as something fresh, 
clean and young after the events and surroundings 
of the last year; a child in many ways; “one who 
hardly knew she was a woman, so sweetly she grew.” 
Her dark hair tucked partly away under her black 


AT “LA MOUCHE” 


53 


tam-o’-shanter fell wilfully around her ears, and 
her blue eyes full of humor and enthusiasm, gave 
her mien an Irish flavor. Her face, smallish, pretty 
and fresh, carried on it as yet no signs of sadness; 
her pleasure in her work lent no touch of weariness 
to her eyelids, and her whole person and personality 
were one with grace and camaraderie. 

“Dites moi,” she said when David had remained 
silent for a moment. “Dites moi, Monsieur Comp¬ 
ton, how did you know I dance for the joy of 
dancing?” 

“Your whole expression, mademoiselle,” returned 
David, “I knew in an instant, the moment you 
appeared, that you were an artiste and the others 
merely performers. They danced, you interpreted. 
You are very young to have advanced so far in your 
art, and to be recognized at your age is unusual.” 

“I’m not so young; I’m twenty,” answered Louise 
naively, “and that is nothing to what I can do; as to 
success, it does not know me yet, but I know I can 
create, and that is the secret of real success.” 

“You are right,” answered David, “but why did 
you take up this profession? You are not the sort 
of woman one finds at a Music Hall.” 

Louise sighed. “I had no choice,” she answered, 
“my father died some time ago, and mother two 
years ago; I talked matters over with Henriette; 
she is my nurse, my companion and my sergeant de 


54 


SURRENDER! 


mile, all wrapped into one; she tried to dissuade 
me, but I had to make money somehow; one must 
live. She wanted me to do sewing or anything to 
keep me out of what she called this ‘sale metier / but 
I was mad to dance, and at last I persuaded her to 
let me have a try at getting an engagement. I got 
an opportunity to see the director of La Mouche, I 
danced for him ... it was finished; since then I 
have arrived to the front row of the little music 
hall. I was born lucky, don’t you think?” 

“For once,” answered David, “hard work and 
talent get their just reward.” 

Louise became serious of a sudden. “Yes, hard 
work,” she repeated, “you are right, monsieur, it is; 
and harder for me. I do not like the life of the big 
City! I was born in the country—I love the 
country—but what would you, if one is to succeed, 
there is only Paris.” 

“You surprise me. I thought you were a Paris¬ 
ian,” said David, interested. 

“My accent is Parisian,” laughed Louise. “I put 
it on like a costume. But I am from the South, 
the dear warm South. I shall go back one day; it 
will be a great day for me. I shall go to the valley 
of the Rhone when the time comes. Avignon, it is 
very beautiful, that department, don’t you think 
so?” 

“Very,” answered David, “you could not make a 


AT “LA MOUCHE ; 


55 


better choice, but that time will be far away, I hope. 
I should like to see you a famous dancer, 
mademoiselle.” 

“You will see me,” said Louise quaintly, “I 
promise you.” 

A figure appeared in the doorway and came to¬ 
wards their table. 

“Mademoiselle,” said a homely voice, “it is time 
for you to return.” Louise who was dreaming of 
the days to come started at the unexpected inter¬ 
ruption, and David rose to his feet. 

“So this is Henriette,” he said, holding out his 
hand, and Henriette curtsied to him. 

“Is it time already?” said Louise regretfully, and 
rising she held out her hand to David. 

“I’m very pleased to have met you, Monsieur, 
and when I am a great dancer, I will invite you to 
my repetition generate she continued laughing. 
“You will come, hein?” 

“But I hope,” said David seriously, realizing 
suddenly that she was going, “that I shall see you 
many times before that.” 

Henriette made a slight movement of impatience. 
“It grows late, mademoiselle,” she said hesitatingly. 

“Ah, monsieur,” answered Louise regretfully, “I 
do not go out very much, and I work very hard. I 
shall not be able to see you again, I’m afraid.” 


56 


SURRENDER! 


Henriette breathed more freely, she was suspicious 
of the English officer. 

“But,” said David, “I have only a few days’ leave 
in Paris, and then I must return to . . 

“But I have no place to receive, Monsieur,” in¬ 
terrupted Louise desperately. “I have only a poor 
apartment, and I have so little time. Is it not so, 
Henriette?” 

Henriette smiled. “Mademoiselle,” she said, “is 
going to be a great artiste; she has no time to lose!” 
David made a movement of resignation. 

“I understand,” he said, looking regretfully into 
Louise’s eager little face. “I hope, mademoiselle, 
you will pardon me; I was in danger of making my¬ 
self a nuisance to you, but our little chat has been 
as pleasant as it was unexpected. You see, I have 
no friends in Paris!” 

Louise felt her sympathies aroused and her heart 
went out to the lonely man. 

“Monsieur,” she said impulsively, “Forgive me, I 
am a beast; you are a man fighting for my country 
and I try to persuade myself not to receive you. I 
am sorry; you may come whenever you like and I 
shall be delighted to see you.” 

“Mademoiselle,” answered David, “you are more 
than good to me; where may I come to see you?” 

“Rue Vauges, Number 15,” answered Louise, 
smiling as she held out her hand to him; then turn- 


AT “LA MOUCHE J 


57 


ing away she took Henriette by the arm and waved 
gaily to him once more at the door of the cafe, before 
she left him alone. 

“How did you get to know the officer?” asked 
Henriette as they walked along the street. 

“Monsieur de Rillac, a journalist, introduced 
him,” said Louise lightly; she felt much more pleased 
with herself now that she had told David he might 
come and see her. 

“But what do you know about him?” hazarded 
Henriette. 

“His name is Compton; he is a Captain in the 
English army,” answered Louise gaily, “and other¬ 
wise rien du tout” 

Henriette looked at her sternly. 

“I don’t know what your poor mother would have 
said,” she answered, “receiving a man like this of 
whom you know absolutely nothing. It is very 
indiscreet of you.” 

“But don’t you like him?” asked Louise naively. 

“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” replied 
Henriette. “If we received every man we liked on 
first acquaintance, the appartement would be un¬ 
bearable and one’s life a misery.” 

“That doesn’t alter the fact,” answered Louise, 
“that he is very charming.” 

“Apparently not,” said Henriette drily; and they 
continued their way in silence till they reached their 


58 SURRENDER! 

appartement; where Henriette sighed as she listened 
to Louise singing to herself whilst she brushed her 
hair before retiring to bed. 

David after idly watching for a few minutes the 
door through which Louise and Henriette had dis¬ 
appeared, rose and left the cafe in his turn. His 
thoughts as he turned his steps towards the Meurice 
were of a pleasing nature. The spirit of loneliness 
which had brooded over him earlier in the evening 
had vanished to the nothingness of its birthplace, 
and in its stead there dwelt in his mind a new and 
for him a fascinating wraith. He had expected to 
be bored by the dancing girl; even though from 
the box he had recognized that she was in some way 
different from the others; but he had not been 
bored. 

It had been his lot hitherto to mix with the 
poseuses, the rather “highbrow” women of the world, 
and youth such as Louise Boucher portrayed, youth 
radiating truth, energy and life, had passed him by 
upon the other side. 

Even if he had not felt lonely, David acknowl¬ 
edged to himself, as he walked back, that she would 
have interested him. Louise stood for something 
he was losing—something that had always been 
denied him—she had been a revelation. 

He thought he would call on her on the morrow:] 


AT “LA MOUCHE” ' 59 

she was so refreshing—so honest-—perhaps she could 
lunch with him. 

His mind was full of the evening’s impressions as 
he turned into the Meurice; his heart was lighter 
within him, and as the lift bore him upwards, he 
thought kindly, very kindly of de Rillac, but his 
thoughts lingered just a little longer over Louise 
Boucher, the dancing girL 


Ill 


LOUISE 

T HE next morning at eleven o’clock David pre¬ 
sented himself at Number 15 Rue Vauges. 
The concierge curtly directed him “Number nine, 
third floor—to the left,” she said, as she turned again 
to her sewing, without giving him another thought. 
David soon found himself at the door of number 
nine, and he smiled to himself as he rang the bell of 
the little flat to think that he, David Anson-Pond, 
the head of the great engineering firm, should be 
calling upon a dancer of a music hall; he who had 
never as a young man called upon any actress of 
either high or no repute in London or elsewhere. 

Henriette who opened the door to him threw up 
her hands in mock dismay. “Monsieur,” she said, 
“wastes no time. Mademoiselle has only this 
moment got out of her bed. She has her exercises 
to do and Monsieur cannot see her till noon.” 

David paused a moment indecisively outside the 
door. “Never mind,” he replied at length to Hen¬ 
riette, “I will wait for mademoiselle if I may.” 
Henriette shrugged her shoulders indifferently. 
60 


LOUISE 


61 


“If monsieur pleases,” she said, as she ushered him 
into a small sitting room. “If monsieur will take a 
chair I will tell mademoiselle that monsieur pro¬ 
poses to wait,” and with that she left him alone. 

David lit a cigarette and wandered around the 
little sitting room which was poorly but tastefully 
furnished. A photograph of an oldish woman with 
an honest peasant face stared at him from a small 
side table, and as he stooped down to examine it, 
the sitting room door opened behind him. 

“Captain Compton, I believe,” said a woman’s 
voice inquiringly in English. 

For a moment it did not occur to David that the 
voice was addressing him; then like a flash came to 
him the remembrance of de Rillac’s lapse of memory 
the night before when presenting him to Louise. He 
turned round and saw a tall fair woman with strongly 
marked features standing in the doorway. 

David felt himself to be in an awkward predica¬ 
ment ... he must either go into explanations to 
this stranger or take the easiest way out and ac¬ 
knowledge the name! After all, what did it 
matter? After his short leave was over he didn’t 
suppose he would ever see either this stranger or the 
charming little dancer again, and whether they 
knew him as Compton or Anson-Pond could make 
no difference to them. 

“Er—yes,” he said, coming towards her. 


62 


SURRENDER! 


“My name's Joyce Lauder/' said the woman, "and 
Louise asked me to come and entertain you while 
she finishes her morning's work. But I am not very 
good at entertaining." 

David laughed. “You are not on the French 
stage then?" he asked. 

“Nor any other stage, thank you," said Joyce 
Lauder frankly as she sat down. “I'm an artist, or 
was, by profession: since the war I’ve had no time 
for painting. I'm doing hospital work ... at the 
moment I am on ‘leave' like you. I share a small 
fiat here with another woman." 

“Does Miss Boucher share hers?" asked David. 

Joyce Lauder laughed. “Oh no, Louise is a 
millionairess," she replied. “She has the entire flat 
to herself and her bonne, Henriette." 

“How long have you known Miss Boucher?" asked 
David. 

Joyce Lauder put her arms around her knees and 
regarded him seriously for a moment. 

“I know exactly what you want to find out," she 
replied to him frankly. “I rather like your looks 
and I'll tell you." 

“You’re charmingly outspoken," answered David 
smiling. 

Joyce laughed. 

“It seemed to me a very natural question," he 
continued. 


LOUISE 


63 


“Very,” said Joyce, “but you see for a man to call 
on Louise is the most unusual thing. They tried 
it on at first, but Henriette was too much for them 
and now they all stay away.” 

“Doesn’t that make life rather dull for her?” 
asked David. 

Joyce resenting the inference, quickly retorted, 
“An Adamless Eden is never dull to a woman who 
is as keen on her work as Louise, and how did you 
manage to overcome Henriette?” she continued de¬ 
fiantly. “You don’t look the superman one would 
expect to have achieved such a victory.” 

“I didn’t overcome her,” said David, “Miss 
Boucher did; she gave me permission to call.” 

Joyce regarded him with a new interest. 

“You don’t properly appreciate the honor,” she 
answered. 

“I’m beginning to,” said David. 

“I suppose you thought,” went on Joyce, “that 
Louise was one of a crowd; you were wrong; I don’t 
want you to make any mistake about that now. 
Louise is just Louise, and she belongs to her own 
circle which is entirely composed of herself. She 
is a creature of impulse.” 

“What Frenchwoman is not?” David acquiesced. 

Joyce paid no attention to David’s interpolation. 

“I expect,” she went on, “you did the lonely soldier 
stunt with her.” David made a movement as if tq 


64 


SURRENDER! 


interrupt. “Oh, don’t be offended,” continued Joyce 
hurriedly, “I didn’t mean that you weren’t lonely; 
you probably are. I’m very sorry for the English 
over here; they always remain so thoroughly Eng¬ 
lish; so utterly and irretrievably isolated.” 

“I don’t think I’m as dyed in the wool as all that,” 
answered David. “I like French, only I don’t pre¬ 
tend to understand them.” 

Joyce smiled at him sweetly. “I don’t suppose you 
really try, do you?” she said. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said David, “I’ve plenty of 
experience with them; I thought I knew Paris life, 
but Miss Boucher confronts me in surroundings 
which give my experience the lie.” 

“Captain Compton,” answered Joyce softly, “never 
fall to the obvious. One looks such a fool after¬ 
wards. Louise comes of good honest peasant stock— 
her father was a small farmer in the South. He died 
and her mother followed him shortly afterwards 
and Louise was left alone with Henriette and no 
money. She had to make her own living. She has 
told me the story many times. Henriette, the faith¬ 
ful Sancho Panza, advised her Don Quixote to do 
needlework, a dressmaker’s shop and that sort of 
thing. But that did not suit Louise at all. She 
must tilt at the windmills and the amazing thing is 
that she has tilted successfully. You admired her 
dancing?” 


LOUISE 65 

“I thought her a true artiste,” replied David with 
conviction. 

“Of course you don’t know anything about the 
art of dancing/’ said Joyce, “but a man who knows 
nothing, say about music, can appreciate a great 
composition when he hears it and know it to be 
great. It is the same with Louise and her dancing: 
it is great and you feel instinctively that it is art, 
and not make-believe.” Joyce Lauder paused and 
rising from her seat made her way to the window. 
“There is something about Louise” she continued 
after a moment, “that frightens me, have you ever 
heard of the story—I don’t remember it very well 
myself—of the man who was riding one night alone 
in the country when his horse’s shoe came loose, and 
he took his horse to the blacksmith to reshoe it. 
When the horse had been reshod, the man prepared 
to pay, but the blacksmith looking into the man’s 
face for the first time, only crossed himself and 
muttering that there was nothing to pay pushed him 
out of the smithy, and shut the door quickly on him 
and his horse.” 

“Why?” said David interested. “How does it 
finish?” 

Joyce walked about the room with nervous strides. 

“The man mounted and rode away,” she con¬ 
tinued, “and after a little while he paused to light a 
cigarette, but found he had no matches; so he 


66 


SURRENDER! 


stopped the first comer and asked him for a match. 
The stranger fumbled for a box of matches, but when 
the man was lighting his cigarette the stranger saw 
his face in the flame and hurriedly left him with the 
box. A storm blew up, and through the rain and hail 
the man rode onj in the forest he met a beggar 
woman, who solicited alms from him; the man 
paused and drew a coin from his pocket. The beggar 
woman looked up and gazing into his eyes, crossed 
herself as the blacksmith had done, and hobbled 
away refusing to take the coin.” Joyce paused a 
moment. “The man rode on through the storm, but 
finally took shelter under a tree,” she continued at 
length, “and the lightning striking the tree killed 
him.” 

David moved a little uneasily in his chair. “It 
was the presentiment of death that the three others 
had seen in the man’s face,” he hazarded quietly, 
and Joyce nodded to him. 

“It is the same with Louise,” she said, “there is a 
presentiment of . . .” she stopped abruptly. “I 
don’t know what,” she continued in a strained voice, 
“but there is something in her face, smiling and 
childlike as it is, that forbodes sorrow.” 

David laughed. “You are a raven,” he said 
unbelievingly. Joyce Lauder turned round upon 
him. 

“You don’t understand,” she said in a passionate 


LOUISE 


67 


voice. “Henriette doesn’t understand, but I know; 
I can see it as plainly as I see you: success, yes, but 
tragedy is there too, the shadow is across her eyes 
even now.” 

There was a pause as Joyce Lauder turned away 
from David to gaze out of the window again: and 
David lighted another cigarette, reflecting upon the 
extraordinary character of this woman whom Louise 
had sent in to entertain him. She had interested 
him, and if interest was entertainment, then she had 
succeeded. 

“Never mind about what I’ve been saying,” Joyce 
said after a moment, “you’re in Paris, aren’t you, for 
a few days leave?” 

As she said these words, the door opened behind 
her abruptly, and Louise appeared, laughter and the 
joy of life in her eyes. 

“Good morning, my English friend,” she said to 
David, as she gave him her hand. “I am sorry to 
have been so long in welcoming you to my apparte- 
ment, but,” she nodded towards Joyce, “I hope 
Joyce has been entertaining you.” 

“She has been more than entertaining,” answered 
David getting up and taking Louise’s hand. “She 
has made the moments of waiting for your appear¬ 
ance simply fly.” 

“And you two—what have you been talking 
about?” asked Louise in a playful voice. 


68 


SURRENDER! 


“Ourselves,” answered Joyce hurriedly, “and the 
weather; what else do the English ever talk about?” 
with which and a wave of her hand she left the 
sitting-room. 

David looked at Louise actuated by a sense of 
curiosity aroused by Joyce Lauder’s remarks. He 
saw before him a girl who, dressed in a plain close 
fitting dark blue costume, looked anything but a 
dancer in a French revue; her hair neatly coiffeured 
and her fresh young face alive with friendliness and 
gladness. 

There was no pose about Louise ; she was honestly 
glad to see him and she made no pretence that she 
was not. Her association with men, as Joyce Lauder 
had told David, had been limited, and David had 
impressed her from the first as different to the others 
she had met before. 

“Well,” said David, “here I am.” Louise nodded. 

“Yes, here you are,” she said laughing. 

“Very well then,” continued David, “what would 
you like to do? Where shall we go, what shall we 
do, and when shall we return?” 

“I must rest content where I am,” answered Louise 
with mock seriousness, “if we go anywhere what will 
my dragon Henriette say?” 

David waved his hand. “I will answer for 
Henriette,” he said boldly, “it is you that should be 
considered.” 


LOUISE 


69 


“Not at all,” said Louise. “You are on leave, my 
friend, you are the first consideration: it is for you to 
enjoy yourself: for myself I am always happy, the 
sun, the birds, my work and sleep: they compose fife, 
they make my happiness; one can do without none 
of them. But you can't find these joys in the 
trenches, therefore it is for you to choose." 

“We will compromise," replied David, “we will 
have dejeuner at the Meurice and spend the after¬ 
noon in the Bois; for there you will have the sun and 
the birds." 

“And you, what will you have?" asked Louise. 

“Your appreciation," answered David, smiling, 
“and Henriettas black looks." So matters arranged 
themselves, and in spite of Henriette’s opposition and 
with a happy laugh Louise descended into the street 
and a taxi bore them swiftly away to the Meurice. 

After lunch, in the course of their wandering up 
the Avenue du Bois to the Porte Dauphine, Louise 
confided to David her ambitions, her hopes, and her 
fears. She received him at once into the intimacies 
of her heart with all the impulsiveness which 
characterized her youth and her nature. She listened 
to what he had to say as one who had known him 
all his life: she extended to him a ready sympathy 
upon his lonely position. 

“No, he must not be lonely in France any more," 
she exclaimed, “she was going to adopt him ... he 


■J 


70 SURRENDER! 

would be her godson . . . she was his marraine! Oh, 
all the lonely ones had marraines, and he must have 
one too!” Laughingly he entered into her mood and 
consented; and so she chattered on, obviously 
anxious that he should be happy and pleased with 
his day; ^nd this intimacy on her part, and her 
sweet concern was so strange and pleasant a sensa¬ 
tion to David, whose life had hitherto been denied 
these precious gifts, that he was almost led to dis¬ 
close to her his real situation—his home and the 
loneliness of his life, which made this temporary 
solitary existence of very small account when com¬ 
pared to the actualities with which he had been faced 
and which he had to face again after the war was 
finished, when he returned to London and Vesta, 
that is, should he come through safely. 

But the mood passed almost as swiftly as it had 
come, never to challenge his mind again: the mantle 
of reserve which characterized him and his race 
descended upon him, and he resolutely refused to 
lift so much as the corner of the veil which covered 
his life before the war. Louise for her part, as he 
did not say he was married, and as he spoke of the 
loneliness of his life concluded that he was not. 

On the war he spoke at length, and she was con¬ 
tent to listen, admiring his knowledge of French 
and the obvious forcefulness of his character. He 
regarded her in the same manner as a crew of one 


LOUISE 


71 


ship regards the crew of another as they pass each 
other upon the high seas; they appear in sight, ex¬ 
change a greeting, and dip beyond the horizon: the 
sea becomes empty and void, but friends have 
passed, and they each have felt a glow of satisfaction 
in so passing. 

The early spring night drew on apace as they 
hurried away from the Cascades where they had 
lingered for a little while, and the air turning cold 
with the approaching twilight caused Louise to 
shiver a little as she drew her cloak closer around 
her throat. As they went along through the Bois 
and the darkness gathered quickly, she stumbled 
once or twice, and David offered her the support of 
his arm, which she timorously took, but as they 
walked along she gained confidence in herself, and 
now and again looked up impulsively at this tall 
English officer as one who was pleased with her com¬ 
panion, life and everything. At the Porte Dauphine 
they found a taxi and back again at the Hue Vauges, 
Henriette received them in sullen silence, but con¬ 
descended to make some tea at Louise’s request, 
whilst she and David tried to stimulate the fire into 
providing some heat from the wretched fuel the 
authorities called coal. 

Later he went back to the Meurice, arranging to 
wait for her after her performance, and give her 
some hot milk at the Souris before he took her and 


72 


SURRENDER! 


Henriette home. After his departure Louise 
answered the questions of the inquisitive Henriette 
quite frankly, and Henriette at length admitted that 
she rather liked the Englishman; but Joyce Lauder 
standing in the doorway with a cup of cocoa in her 
hand shook her head at Louise as she detailed her 
day’s outing. Rut neither Henriette’s reluctant 
admission nor Joyce Lauder’s foreboding made the 
least difference to Louise. She was sure she liked the 
Englishman; his whole attitude had attracted her, 
and she had spoken of her inner thoughts to a man 
for the first time in her life. It did not matter to 
her that she knew nothing about him; here was a 
man who appealed to her, who already meant some¬ 
thing to her, and it was not a part of her nature to 
try and dissect such a man. She was content to 
accept him; she did not consider what such an 
acceptance of him might mean to her, and what the 
consequences thereof might be, any more than she 
had considered what might be the consequences of 
her adopting the life of a dancer; she had wanted to 
do the latter and she had done it. She wished to 
accept Monsieur le Capitaine as her own especial 
favorite, and she proceeded to do so regardless of 
Henriette and the warning of her friend. 

After the theatre that night, David duly met her 
and escorted her to the cafe where talking and laugh¬ 
ing they awaited the arrival of Henriette. Later, in 


LOUISE 


73 


the Rue Vauges, Louise bade him good-night, 
promising to come to the Meurice the next day at 
twelve o’clock. 

A whole week slipped away; every morning it 
was— “where shall we go to-day?”—when they said 
‘good-night’ the promise was made to meet on the 
morrow; and when the morrow came, her exercises 
done, Louise would set out for the Meurice which, 
being in the centre of Paris, saved them much time 
in reaching the various parts they proposed to visit. 

Apart from the charm of a pleasant companion, 
David had an unusual sensation, rarely given to a 
foreigner, of showing a French girl Paris; for when 
Louise had first arrived there—a stranger from the 
country—she had plunged at once into work, and she 
had not had the time, nor had she the money for 
sight-seeing. 

Under these conditions their friendship had 
ripened quickly, and Monsieur and Mademoiselle 
had soon given place to David and Louise. 

David as he revisited the favorite places of his 
student days, and listened to her exclamations of 
delighted surprise and pleasure as he disclosed some 
new beauty spot of Paris to her, came more and 
more under the spell of her youthful enthusiasm; 
gradually her eyes became his eyes, and through 
them the mist of years with their longings and dis¬ 
appointments passed away, until her mood became 


74 


SURRENDER! 


-his mood, and the expectancy of youth enfolded him 
in its strong arms and sped him through the days. 

So a week later as the valet de chambre drew back 
the curtains and the spring sunshine flooded the 
room with its pale yellow light, David lay for a little 
while lazily sunning himself in its warm rays, a maze 
of pleasant thoughts crowding and jostling each 
other playfully within his mind. He had had 
pleasant dreams and life was no longer in the shadow 
—life was beautiful! Even the French coffee tasted 
good that spring morning! 

At 15 Rue Vauges, Louise, her morning exercises 
finished at last—for Henriette took good care to see 
that not one was left undone, sight-seeing or no 
sight-seeing—was hurrying through her dressing; 
she was due at the Meurice as usual at noon . . . she 
must not be late! 

As she stood before the mirror rapidly coiling up 
her long hair, tucking away the wayward strands 
that curled themselves about her fingers, and 
feverishly pushing in a hairpin here and a hairpin 
there, she was startled by the entrance of Henriette, 
who waving a letter in her hand declared that her 
sister, her only sister, her very poor sister, her 
adorable sister who lived in Chantilly had been taken 
seriously ill. It had been Henriette’s habit to pay 
an occasional visit to this sister of hers, the only 
relative whom le bon Dieu vouchsafed her, and she 


LOUISE 


75 

had always taken Louise with her; now, calamity 
of calamities, her sister was ill and she wanted 
Henriette to go down to Chantilly for a night or so. 

“What will Mademoiselle do?” asked Henriette 
anxiously. “Will Mademoiselle come with me, and 
return from the theatre to Chantilly at night until 
my sister is better?” 

Louise shook her head. “You go, Henriette,” she 
said, “it is only for a little time, and I can manage 
very well without you.” 

“But Mademoiselle has never managed without 
me,” argued Henriette desperately, torn between her 
affection for her sister and her duty to Louise. 

“All the more reason why I should begin,” said 
Louise laughing. 

Henriette paused in indecision; she was not at all 
happy in her mind at leaving Louise alone. 

“I shall tell Mademoiselle Lauder,” she vouch¬ 
safed at length, “she will . . ” Louise made an 
impatient movement. 

“You will do no such thing,” she interrupted 
quickly. “Mademoiselle Lauder is on her holiday, 
and I won’t have her bothered with my affairs: I 
can look after myself! ” Henriette smiled in spite of 
her anxiety. 

“You are a brave one; I never knew a child like 
you who could look after itself,” she answered; then 
turning to the letter she read it rapidly once again 


76 


SURRENDER! 


and becoming more and more agitated as she read, 
she finally burst into tears exclaiming, “But I must 
go—it is serious, this illness; she may not recover, 
and she is such an imbecile!” Whereupon Louise 
put an arm round her and patted her affectionately 
on the shoulder. 

“You will go, ma chere —immediately,” she said. 
“Look after your sister, and I will look after myself 
—you will see!” 

Henriette sighed as she wiped her eyes with the 
corner of her apron. 

“Very well,” she answered; “but I shall write to 
you as soon as I arrive, and I shall return to-morrow 
if le bon Dieu will let me”; and with a flurry of skirts 
and an agitated closing of the door Henriette left the 
room; an hour later she was on her way to Chantilly. 

“Now,” said Louise to David, when she met him 
at the Meurice; “I have a surprise for you: I do not 
know Paris, but I know the country, and I will take 
you, mon ami , to a charming place for dejeuner , and 
I will be hostess.” 

“You may pipe and I will dance, but I must pay 
the piper!” answered David. 

“You will dance?” she said laughing at the idea; 
“that is funny, and you will pay for it, that is funny, 
too!” and laughing happily they set out in a taxi at 
the direction of Louise for the woods of Saint Ger¬ 
main. 


LOUISE 


77 

The hand of winter had stripped the grand trees 
of their rich foliage, but pale little shoots were 
already beginning to peep out from the giant 
branches, and the sun, shining fitfully through their 
lattice work brought the promise of spring to the 
scene. 

They had lunch at the restaurant “La Belle Dame 
Sans Merci”; there was no crowd to help the 
“Patron” fill his stocking—one or two American 
artists and their models were the only other people 
lunching, but Louise was known to Madame, who 
presided over the bureau, and the “Patron” beamed 
at her as he discussed the events of the day; they 
assumed, these two good old people, that Louise and 
David were lovers. “For who else,” murmured the 
“Patron” to Madame, “would choose the woods of 
Saint Germain in the springtime?” 

Louise and David laughingly accepted their atti¬ 
tude—David’s habitual reserve vanishing under the 
genial attentions of the “Patron” and Madame. 

On leaving the restaurant, Louise grasped his arm 
as one who had a proprietary right, and it pleased 
her to think that this kind English officer was in her 
care. 

They leaned on the wall overlooking the heights 
and gazed on Paris—a great gray mass in the mists. 
The hurried departure of Henriette was again dis¬ 
cussed. 


78 


SURRENDER! 


“I am just as lonely as you now, mon ami” said 
Louise; “one looks down on the life of Paris, and it 
is sad to think in the midst of all that movement and 
gaiety one is a solitary person.” 

“You would like to have a lot of people around 
you?” hazarded David; “to be the centre of a large 
circle of admirers?” Louise made a moue of dissatis¬ 
faction. 

“I am very content with you,” she said quietly, 
and she grasped his arm a little tighter. “You know, 
I forget what Paris was like before I met you; and 
it is only one week!” 

“You are enjoying yourself then?” said David 
looking down at the piquant little face beside him. 

“As I never did before,” said Louise. David, smil¬ 
ing indulgently, patted her hand. 

“You are a child—you are easily pleased!” 

“Life was different for me before,” Louise pro¬ 
tested—“I was pleased then, and happy too, but it 
was a different kind of pleasure, and another kind of 
happiness.” 

“You are very flattering to me,” replied David. 

“I am being honest, that is all,” said Louise. “But 
I suppose you think I am foolish! You are bored, 

hein?” 

“Bored? Good heavens, no!” answered David; 
“it is long ago since I found life so free from care, 
and so young; it has come so suddenly I haven't 


LOUISE 


79 


quite realized it yet. You see, I am not so young 
as you; I take some time to get used to any change, 
and I did not think that it would ever be my luck to 
walk in the woods of Saint Germain again with any¬ 
one so young and pretty as you, Lolo!” 

Louise noticed with a start the use by David of 
the diminutive of her Christian name; so far he had 
only called her “Louise,” or “mon amie”; she felt 
that David had unconsciously perhaps approached 
much nearer to her. “The English,” she reflected, 
“were so droll!” 

“What about an early dinner?” said David later, 
“Let’s go to Amenonville; you would like that?” 

“It is very chic there,” replied Louise looking at 
her clothes; “but if you don’t mind, why should I 
care?” 

So towards evening they arrived at Amenonville 
for dinner, and afterwards left on foot to walk for 
a little through the Bois until they should come to 
Porte Dauphine. 

This walk had been David’s idea, for Louise had 
been frightened of the Bois at night; and as they 
walked, the gusts of wind playing between the trees 
stirred the deep leaves on the ground to a faint 
rustle, whilst the branches rattled and creaked above 
their heads. Night had long since fallen, and it 
would have been impossible for them to have seen 
their way had it not been for the moonlight, though 


80 


SURRENDER! 


this was often obscured by the gathering clouds, 
which left them in total darkness. 

Except for the echo of their footsteps as they made 
their way through the narrow avenue of trees, a 
deep silence reigned, which gave them a feeling of 
utter aloofness—Paris seemed very far away. 

Louise cast anxious glances around her as they 
went along, and clung to David’s arm as one who 
was afraid of some hidden danger; for the Bois at 
night was not a place in which a Parisian would 
choose to walk. 

“Let us go quickly to the Avenue du Bois,” she 
said to David after a little while; “it is lighter over 
there. I have heard so many horrible tales about 
the Bois at night.” 

David shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly. 

“Just as you like,” he answered. 

They hastened across the road, and were close to 
the curb on the other side when suddenly, out of the 
darkness dashed an army car at full speed; it seemed 
to be upon them in an instant—to tower over 
them . . . Louise paralyzed with fear stood as 
though rooted to the ground—incapable of move¬ 
ment; another moment and its wheels would have 
caught them; but in that moment David lifted 
Louise and flung her out of the way of the car: she 
landed in a crumpled heap on a mass of dried leaves; 
David in an attempt to follow her slipped on the 


LOUISE 


81 


slimy surface of the road and fell with considerable 
force face downward on the hard asphalt surface of 
the walk. 

The car, without lights, crashed past into the dark¬ 
ness, its whirring noise died away in the distance, 
and all was silent again. 

Louise, quickly recovering her presence of mind, 
raised her head and looked apprehensively about for 
David, but there was no moving figure to be seen. 
Fear clutching at her heart strings she struggled 
quickly to her feet, and called in an agonized voice: 
“David! David!” 

But no answering voice came to her, and trembling 
she stood there for a moment peering into the sur¬ 
rounding darkness, trying to pierce the gloom. 

“David! David!” she called again; but all was 
silent. 

In fear and dread she began to move across the 
path towards the road; on the edge of the path she 
stumbled over his prostrate form—her first thought 
was that he had been struck by the car and killed! 

Throwing herself down beside him, she raised his 
head and bending down till her eyes were close to 
his she looked for some sign of life, crying out 
despairingly. 

“David! David! Speak to me! Oh, speak to 
me!” 

Slowly his eyes opened, and for a moment they 


82 


SURRENDER! 


looked waveringly into the two eyes bent so 
anxiously on his own; then they closed again wearily, 
only to open again almost immediately as a despair¬ 
ing, tearful voice pierced his consciousness 
saying . . . 

“David! Dear, dear David, do speak!” 

Looking up into her piteous little face he saw love 
—for the first time—her look, her words, seemed to 
fill the world—all else seemed to have vanished; he 
had a dreamy feeling of being lost in space-—- 
separated by infinity from the rest of the world . . . 
his arms went round her neck and drawing her face 
close to his—he kissed her! 

Louise, clinging to him, returned his kisses lov¬ 
ingly; as she heard his voice her fears for him began 
to subside, and laughing tremulously through her ' 
tears, the glad moment of his caress took possession 
of her; but as he rose unsteadily to his feet fresh 
fears assailed her. 

“You—you are hurt?” she exclaimed. 

“No, no,” said David, “just a little shaken—noth¬ 
ing at all!” 

“You are certain?” she persisted anxiously. 

“Absolutely. The car didn’t touch me—it was a 
narrow squeak, that’s all!” answered David smiling; 
“but you’re crying, Lolo!” he went on as Louise 
clung to him and hid her face. 


LOUISE 83 

“Of course I’m crying,” she gulped; “I—I thought 
you were killed!” 

“Dear little Lolo,” said David softly, and taking 
out his handkerchief he raised her head and tenderly 
dried her tears, kissing her the while, till she smiled 
up at him in happy confidence that all was indeed 
well. 

Slowly they made their way toward the Porte 
Dauphine; David’s arm around her, and her head 
lying contentedly against his shoulder. 

“You will come to the theatre with me, my 
David?” asked Louise anxiously as they got into the 
taxi. 

“Why of course,” answered David. “Do you think 
I’d let you go alone?” Louise curled herself up 
against him, her anxiety over, and her head upon 
his shoulder as the taxi took them towards “La 
Mouche.” 

After the performance Louise vetoed David’s 
suggestion that they should go to their usual cafe; 
and taking him back with her to the Rue Vauges 
she made coffee in her own little kitchen, whilst she 
hummed happily to herself. 

As David sat in the sitting room smoking his pipe 
he thought how cosy the simple room was—he felt 
quite at home in it . . . and a week ago, he had not 
known of its existence! 

In the old days he would have been astounded 


84 


SURRENDER! 


to find himself in his present position, but the War 
to him was an adventure—it had stirred his imagina¬ 
tion, and cleared away the rubbish which had 
encumbered it. 

No thoughts drifted back to the years which were 
gone; Paris had him under her spell, and Louise was 
to him Paris in all its beauty, its art, and its romance. 

The longing of his soul for companionship . . . 
one ideal at least in his life had been realized; for 
once he was looking happiness boldly in the face! 

, Every moment or so Louise would leave the little 
kitchen, and breaking in on his train of thought 
would fling her arms about him and kiss him. Her 
charm was irresistible, and the sweetness of her 
adoration awoke in David’s breast the spirit of love 
which had lain dormant these long years. 

The coffee finished she sat contentedly upon his 
knee; the call of youth which was hers found an 
echo in his heart. Louise never questioned; he was 
a man who loved her, and she loved him. Love did 
not make her think or ask questions—love had 
kissed her and she was happy. She did not count 
the cost; she never gave a thought to the future, nor 
wished to probe the past; the present lay gloriously 
before her—the present was life to her. 

To David the love of life, vivid and overpowering, 
as expressed by Louise was a phase of woman to 
which he was a stranger; he was engulfed and sub- 


LOUISE 


85 


merged in it; as it was with Louise, the present 
became the great thing in David’s eyes; he did not 
consider the future; this was to-day, and to¬ 
morrow ... so far away! 

A vague resolution took shape in his mind as he 
ran his hand lightly through her fallen hair—a 
resolution to go; a feeling that it was not fair to 
Louise drifted aimlessly through his brain; but when 
her lips alight with passion sought his, and her eyes 
weary with love looked at him from beneath their 
dark lashes, the resolution vanished from his mind, 
and the night breaking to the dawn found him still 
in the Rue Vauges. 


IV 

ROMANCE 

H ENRIETTE’S letter arrived the next morning, 
saying that her sister was a little better but 
that she, Henriette, thought it safer to remain at 
Chantilly for another night, just to see that every¬ 
thing continued to arrange itself well. 

As Louise put the letter down on her dressing 
table she confessed to herself that she was glad 
Henriette was not returning just yet. David had 
gone back to the Meurice an hour previously, where 
Louise was to join him as usual at mid-day, and 
they were to continue once again their sojourn in 
the land of the Heart’s Desire. 

As she surveyed herself in the mirror, Louise felt 
a very happy woman that morning; all the tender¬ 
ness and infinite trust of her nature had been brought 
to the surface in this her love affair. She confessed 
to herself that life before she had met David had 
been a very ordinary existence. In two days she 
had changed from a girl to a woman, but as yet she 
did not realize the momentous nature of that change. 
She only knew that each minute of the hour, each 
86 


ROMANCE 


87 


hour of the day, had suddenly become vitally 
important to her; that the presence of David 
colored her existence and caused her thoughts to fly 
from one peak to another along the range of 
imagination. 

Joyce Lauder finding that her repeated ringing of 
the outer bell brought no answer, turned the knob 
of the door, and finding it unlocked entered the flat. 
Hearing no sound she moved quietly towards 
Louise’s room, where through the half-opened door 
she saw Louise before the mirror, apparently in 
wrapt contemplation of her own features; but when 
she caught the reflection of Louise’s face in the glass, 
a feeling of complete amazement took possession of 
her. 

Louise, her thoughts far away, had not heard Joyce 
come in, and her eyes fixed on realms beyond the 
four comers of her bedroom dwelt unseeing upon the 
mirror in front of her. 

Joyce watched her in silence, for the whole attitude 
of Louise was so unlike her. As a rule she would be 
rushing from one room to another at this hour of 
the morning, or trying new steps for some dance, 
or exercising her muscles by going through a 
strenuous leg drill, and Joyce was puzzled to see 
this contemplative and very still Louise with her 
hands upon her chin, and her eyes gazing out into 
space. 


88 


SURRENDER! 


“Louise,” she said suddenly. 

Louise started: a frightened expression came into 
her eyes, to be succeeded almost immediately by one 
of gaiety. 

“Oh, la, la, la!” she said lightly as she turned from 
the dressing table, “I was day dreaming.” 

“Day dreaming!” answered Joyce, “At this hour 
in the morning. This is not dream time—this is 
work time!” 

Louise jumped up from her chair. “Is it as late 
as that?” she answered in a surprised voice. 

“It’s struck eleven!” said Joyce, watching Louise 
closely as she moved toward the hanging cupboard 
where she kept an old pair of dancing shoes and the 
ballet dress in which she was wont to practise. 

“Then I must hurry,” said Louise quickly taking 
down her costume from behind the curtains. 

“Going out again to-day?” asked Joyce casually, 
watching her closely the while. 

“Oh, yes!” emphatically replied Louise as she 
pulled off her peignoir and threw it lightly on the 
bed. 

“For the whole day?” continued Joyce. 

“For the whole day,” repeated Louise her face 
beaming. “I’m meeting Captain Compton at 
twelve.” Her practice dress on by this time, she 
began going through her exercises in feverish haste, 
as though anxious to be done with them. 


ROMANCE 89 

“What do you really think of him?” questioned 
Joyce again. 

“Think of him?” echoed Louise, her face lighting 

up. 

“Do you like him?” persisted Joyce. 

“Like him!” answered Louise. “I adore him!” 

Joyce went quickly up and caught her by the 
shoulder. “Louise,” she said quietly, “you aren’t 
going to make a fool of yourself?” 

Louise puckered her brow and looked at her. 

“What exactly do you call ‘making a fool of my¬ 
self?” she asked. 

“Well, you have fallen in love with the man!” 
answered Joyce. 

“Fallen in love?” repeated Louise in a soft voice, 
her exercises coming to a sudden step. “Fallen in 
love: but that’s exactly what I have done.” 

Joyce sat down, an expression of determination 
spreading over her face, and her mouth tightening 
as she contemplated Louise. 

“You are a fool then,” she said harshly. “What 
do you know about Captain Compton?” 

“What do I know?” answered Louise helplessly, 
“I know I’ve fallen in love with him; I don’t want 
to know anything else.” And turning away she con¬ 
tinued her exercises with increased energy. 

“That’s very evident,” said Joyce impatiently, 


90 SURRENDER! 

“you think you’ve fallen in love; you can’t possibly 
know what love means.” 

“Don’t you think I know that?” asked Louise 
softly. “You cannot teach me anything about love, 
Joyce,” she went on in a reflective voice, “there is 
nothing to learn; one loves . . . and that is all! 
One is born to love and to be loved, or one is bom 
without love; there is no school for love.” 

“You are implying,” answered Joyce, “that I don’t 
know anything about it; that I was born without 
love.” 

Louise made a deprecating gesture. 

“No, no, Joyce!” she cried. “I did not mean that; 
any man would be an imbecile not to fall in love \ 
with you.” 

Joyce made a movement of impatience. “With 
love such as yours goes sorrow,” she answered; “they 
are inseparable companions; don’t you understand, 
Louise, can’t you see the whole thing is hopeless 
from the very start, unless,” she paused, “this Cap¬ 
tain Compton wants to marry you?” 

Louise slowly removed her dancing shoes and stood 
up. “I do not know yet,” she said, “I only know 
he loves me.” 

Joyce suddenly became aware that events had 
happened faster than she had thought. 

“Louise,” she said harshly, “you have not . . . 
you have not become his mistress?” 


ROMANCE 91 

Louise lifted her eyes so as to look Joyce in the 
face. 

“Mistress,” she repeated, “why is it when you Eng¬ 
lish use that word it is with contempt. Do you 
think it makes any difference to me? I love, I tell 
you, isn’t that enough? He is the one man I have 
chosen in the whole world to love. It does not 
matter to me if I am his wife or not. Don’t you 
understand? He may have to go to-morrow,” she 
paused and then continued softly. “It may be that 
death will separate us for ever. I have tried not 
to think of it, to imagine that this will continue, this 
wonderful life of mine. But, deep down within me, 
I know that at any moment he may leave, go back 
to the front, and perhaps they will kill him, the 
Boches!” Her hands flew to her face and she sobbed 
passionately. 

“But,” answered Joyce, her manner softening 
under this grief of Louise, “apart from anything else, 
is it worth it?” 

“Worth it?” cried Louise. “You cannot put a 
price upon love: it is worth the world to me. I 
belong to him—I always belonged to David—I have 
belonged to him from the beginning of time. He 
only takes what has always been his. You do not 
understand: love is sacrifice, and there is so little 
time. My God, so little time. Do you not see? He 
may be gone to-morrow ... he may never come 


92 


SURRENDER! 


back to me. My arms may rest lifeless by my side, 
my heart beat in sorrow, my soul wander in a cold 
world alone, naked, weary; perhaps there may be no 
tomorrow: I cannot make the clock stand still. Can 
you? Will you not understand?” Louise paused, 
her eyes swollen with her crying, her hair dishevelled, 
whilst Joyce Lauder appalled at her outburst 
regarded her for a moment in silence. 

“I understand some part,” she said at last, “but I 
ask you, can’t you see it’s all wrong?” 

“Wrong,” repeated Louise in a wondering voice, 
“that I should love David and David should love 
me? There was never anything so right.” 

“Yes, but marriage, you must have that,” con¬ 
tinued Joyce. 

“Yes, we shall be married,” said Louise confidently. 
“It is only a question of arranging these things; 
David will make the arrangements.” Louise had 
recovered herself a little now, and Joyce seeing that 
nothing she could say on the subject could dissuade 
Louise, rose to go and pausing by the door said 
gently: 

“Please don’t think I’m harsh. If there is any¬ 
thing I can do at any time I shall be only too will¬ 
ing. You know I’m very fond of you, Louise, and 
it’s that fondness which has made me speak out. I 
don’t want you to come to any harm; I want to save 
you from yourself.” 


ROMANCE 93 

Louise went towards her impulsively and kissed 
her. “Thank you, dear kind Joyce, you’re very good 
to me,” she said simply, “and I am very happy.” 

But Joyce as she closed the door behind her saw 
vaguely the troubles she had already imagined 
prophesied for Louise take shape, and she muttered 
to herself as she went into her own appartement that 
all was not well. 

David found a letter from Vesta awaiting him at 
the hotel on his return. He turned it idly over in 
his hand and, after reading it, tore it across and 
across and dropped the pieces in the wastepaper 
basket by his side. 

Vesta! His mind visualized the cold, hard woman 
who was his wife; what would have been her atti¬ 
tude had she known of the new woman who had 
just appeared upon his horizon? He smiled bitterly 
to himself, there was no mercy in Vesta’s nature. 
With his thoughts of Vesta were wedged his 
thoughts of the business and with those, Louise. 
Everything was incompatible, nothing fitted. Vesta 
and himself; Louise and the business; Louise and 
Vesta: everything was awry. Only himself and the 
business, they fitted together. 

“After all,” he said to himself, “life was no 
ordinary existence at the moment; nothing fitted 
for anybody. The war, he now realized, was only 
at its beginning; what would he give for his chances 


94 SURRENDER! 

of surviving? Not much! Did it then matter 
whether anything fitted? Did it matter whether 
Vesta knew or not? Should he tell Louise he was 
married? What was the use? Nothing could be 
done now; at any rate not at this moment. To¬ 
morrow even he might be back in the trenches. If 
not to-morrow, then the next day. 

He might be killed the next week, next month, 
next year. It wasn’t worth while troubling about all 
these things: they were remote: time would put all 
things right, if that were needed. 

The present, that was the important thingten 
days at the outside was all the General had promised 
him; why worry Louise, or himself, in these last 
few days that were left? 

What was it that old winebibber had said? 

“One moment in Annihilation’s Waste, 

One moment of the Well of Life to taste— 

The Stars are setting, and the Caravan 

Draws to the Dawn of Nothing—oh make haste.” 

“Draws to the Dawn of Nothing”—he was right! 
Nothing mattered, and there was only Death—the 
pale reaper, to cut down the standing corn; a full 
ear or an empty one; did it much matter? 

So it was that David deliberated in his mind and 
determined to do nothing. 


ROMANCE 


95 

Louise, for her part, in infinite trust, loved him 
with all the greatness of her heart and refusing to 
face the thought of his departure determined to 
regard it when the time should come as being only 
in the nature of a short separation. Afterwards, 
when the war was over or when he came back on 
a second leave, there would be time enough to put 
things straight; and when love is the love of an 
eternity, what matters the passage of a day! 

That night they brought back to the Rue Vauges 
a bottle of champagne, a cold fowl, and some salad, 
all mixed up together in a bag. Louise, donning one 
of Henrietta's large check aprons went into the tiny 
kitchen and turned cook for the occasion; between 
whiles giving David lessons in laying the table, over 
which there was much laughter and many kisses. 

During the meal they behaved like children, and 
it seemed to David that the world of reality had 
indeed taken flight for ever. 

The wish-bone picked clean was held before him 
in tantalizing fashion by Louise. 

“Come,” she said, “only one finger and a thumb; 
no cheating, and we must wish.” 

David grasped the thin bone, laughing all the 
while, until Louise who had suddenly become serious, 
said- 

“Have you wished?” 


m SURRENDER! 

David nodded; they snapped the bone and Louise 
held the smaller half before her in disgust. 

“I have lost!” she said, “What did you wish for?” 

“I’m not allowed to tell you, am I?” asked David 
smiling: “otherwise it won’t come true.” 

Louise nodded solemnly. “That is so,” she 
answered, “but I can tell you what I wished.” 

“Well?” questioned David. “What was your 
wish 9 ” 

Louise leant toward him, and put her arms around 
his neck. 

“That we could just remain here, you ahd I, 
David,” she said softly, “for ever.” 

David patted her soft cheek tenderly. “That was 
an impossible wish, Lolo,” he said gently, “for you 
have the theatre and your dancing, and I . . . the 
War.” 

Louise clung closer to him for a moment as if 
afraid to let him go; then gradually the serious 
mood left her and she resolutely put away all 
thoughts of parting with him. 

She smiled once more at him through her starting 
tears. “My David,” she whispered, and laughing 
they returned to the table and the cold chicken. 

On the morning following the happy supper, 
Henriette returned from the country; her sister was 
much better and she felt she could safely leave her 
in other hands. . 


ROMANCE 97 

To her Louise confided her secret, and Henriette 
seeing that nothing would avail except acquiescence, 
took her into her guardian arms and awaited David's 
announcement of a definite date for the marriage, 
with an appearance of all the confidence in him 
which Louise expected. 

But the day that brought Henriette back from 
Chantilly brought to David the dread message of 
recall; it was after leaving Louise at “La Mouche” 
for the evening performance that the blow fell. 
David had hurried back to the hotel to see whether 
there was any message for him, and there, in the 
rack at the bureau lay the ominous blue-gray 
envelope. David tore it open hastily, there were 
only two words- 

“Return immediately.” 

His “leave” was at an end; the idyll was finished; 
he must go. “How long has this been here?” he 
asked the concierge. 

“It came shortly after you left the hotel this 
morning, Monsieur le Capitaine, about half past 
eleven,” replied the concierge; “but we did not know; 
where to find you.” 

Good God! It had been waiting for hours and 
David realized he hadn't a minute to lose. 

“Tell the valet to pack my things,” he said 
hurriedly, “and bring my bill; I must go at once.” 

Louise! There was still Louise. “Poor little 



98 SURRENDER! 

Lolo,” he thought to himself. “What am I to do 
about her?” 

He could not go back to the theatre; it would take 
too long; and then probably she would be on the 
stage; he couldn't wait till the end of the show. He 
mustn’t wait another moment, he should have been 
on his way long ago. The thought of the many 
hours he had delayed was maddening to him. He 
made his way into the writing room and sat down 
•to write her a note. There was no time for explana¬ 
tions: they could come later; if there was ever to be 
a “later” for him! 


“Dear little Lolo” (he wrote in French), 

“This is just a line to say good-bye. I have been 
recalled on urgent duty, and haven’t a minute to spare, 
not even to come and see you, 

Yours, 


David.” 


It sounded bald and crude; it wasn’t in the least 
what he meant to say: he wished to say so many 
things; but his mind refused to think of but one 
thing . . . the delay . . . a whole day! 

“Your bill, Monsieur le Capitaine” said the con¬ 
cierge, who had entered whilst he was writing the 
note. 

David flung the paper aside and paid the bill. 


ROMANCE 


99 


“Your luggage is in the taxi, Monsieur le Capi - 
tame” said the concierge. 

David folded the note, placed it in the envelope 
and addressed it. 

“Tell the chasseur to deliver this immediately,” 
he said. At the door of the hotel he stood for a 
moment looking up and down the street—an over¬ 
powering longing seized him to see Louise once 
more . . . He hesitated . . . jumped into the wait¬ 
ing taxi, and resolutely putting all thought of her 
behind him, shouted, “Gare du Nord” 

“Bon chance” said the concierge as he banged the 
door to. 

“Poor little Lolo,” David said to himself, as the 
taxi bore him rapidly away. 

Louise had just changed into her costume and was 
waiting for the call when there came a knock at the 
door of her dressing room. Henriette hurried for¬ 
ward to find the chasseur of the hotel standing there 
with the letter; she took it. 

“From the Hotel Meurice,” said the chasseur, 
turning to go.” 

“Wait a moment,” exclaimed Henriette, “there 
may be an answer.” 

“There will be no answer,” vouchsafed the 
chasseur as he went on his way, and Henriette 
gently closed the door of the dressing room behind 



100 SURRENDER! 

her; she felt within herself that this letter meant 
David had gone. 

“A note for you, mademoiselle,” she said in a dry 
voice as she handed the letter to Louise. 

“From my David,” exclaimed Louise, as she almost 
snatched the envelope from the hands of Henriette, 
and opening it, read it aloud—— 

“This is just to say au revoir” she read . . . she 
paused and laughed at Henriette. “What a droll 
man,” she exclaimed, “he only left me an hour ago 
and now he writes to say au revoir” She turned 
to the letter again. “I have been recalled on urgent 
duty,” she read hurriedly, “and haven’t a minute to 
spare, not even time to come and see you. Yours, 
David.” 

Louise glanced back again at the beginning; a 
numbness came over her and she steadied herself 
by grasping the corner of the dressing table. “It is 
not au revoir” she said in a husky voice, “it is adieu” 

Henriette took her gently in her arms and 
endeavored to calm her, as the full significance of 
the letter slowly forced itself upon her thoughts. 

“He is gone, my David,” cried Louise hysterically. 
“Do you understand, Henriette? They have sent 
for him; he will not come here to-night after the 
theatre: I cannot go home without him, Henriette; 
I cannot go home without him!” 

Henriette, her heart full of foreboding, was deter-* 



ROMANCE 


101 


mined to let no sign of it escape her and as she held 
Louise tightly to her barren breasts as she would 
have done a child, swaying backwards and forwards 
as though rocking her to sleep, she murmured, “It is 
all right, ma cherie. He will come back, never fear; 
he will soon get another leave/ and then everything 
will be all right again. In a day or two you will get 
another letter and all will be well, you will see; 
Henriette knows: it will be all right.” 

Louise sobbed as if her breast would break, and 
no words of Henriette could stem her grief at the 
thought of this separation. 

“The time was so short,” she cried, “only a few 
days, Henriette, and they have taken him away 
from me, my David. Do not you understand I can¬ 
not live without him; he is my life.” 

“He will come back,” reiterated Henriette, “you 
will see. In two or three months’ time the war will 
be all over, perhaps, and then he will never go away 
any more. Besides, you can write to him when 
you go home.” 

Louise ceased her crying abruptly. “Write to 
him,” she gasped, “I don’t even know his address.” 

At this moment there came a sharp rap at the 
door, and a voice outside called out “ballet begin¬ 
ning.” Henriette started up. “Come,” she said 
brusquely, “you are in a nice mess to appear before 


102 SURRENDER! 

the public; your ‘make-up’ it is ruined! We will 
have to do it all over again.” 

In spite of the sobs from her rebellious breast, 
Louise endeavored to repair her make-up, 
Henriette standing over her with powder puff and 
hare’s foot in hand. 

“Courage, ma petite,” she said, “you have your 
work, as Monsieur David has his: do not give way 
like this, but take heart! All sorts of things must 
be faced in life, and Monsieur David he has to go— 
he must go—he must fight. What would he say if 
he knew you were behaving like this, and not doing 
your part, not giving your attention to your work? 

Louise pulled herself together with an effort and 
adjusted her ballet dress. 

“You are right, Henriette,” she said, “I will be 
brave”; and with a final glance at the mirror, she 
turned her back and defiantly left her dressing room 
to face the public. 

The ballet over, she returned once more to her 
dressing room, gazing silently in front of her whilst 
Henriette busied herself taking off the ballet dress. 
Her eyes were dry now and only the feverish fire in 
them betokened the hunger in her soul. 

A moment later came a tap at the door and the 
manager of the theatre poked his head in. 

“I have brought an English gentleman round to 
see you,” he said; “when you are ready.” 


ROMANCE 103 

Henriette, fastening the back of Louise’s dress, felt 
the quiver of her body. 

“But I wish to see no one, Monsieur Maillot,” said 
Louise wearily. 

Her Directeur made a gesture of remonstrance. 
“See no one?” he answered, “This is an English 
Directeur. You know very well it is difficult for us 
to get coal! No coal—no light! We may have to 
close the theatre any night. You must not be foolish 
•—this may mean an engagement for you in London!” 

Louise startled at the name of London. David, 
her David, came from London! he had told her so. 

“Very well, in that case,” she said, “let him come 
in.” 

When the manager had gone, Henriette rose from 
her feet and gesticulated wildly. “Enough of these 
English. We are not going to London,” she ex¬ 
claimed, “you will not go, mademoiselle. It is a cold, 
dreadful place and always in the fog.” But Louise 
turned to her and said- 

“I will only hear what he has to say,” she 
answered; but Henriette awaited the outcome of the 
interview with an anxiety she could not conceal. 

“Monsieur George Wellsman,” was announced a 
moment later. 

“You speak English, mademoiselle?” he asked, as 
he shook hands. 


104 SURRENDER! 

“A very little,” answered Louise. Wellsman 
laughed. 

“Well, it’s certain to be better than my French” 
he answered. Louise made a dissenting gesture. 
“But,” he continued “between my poor French and 
your better English I think we shall manage to 
understand each other.” 

“What want you of me, monsieur—a little 
unknown?” she asked in her halting English. 

“Not ‘unknown’,” replied the English manager, 
rubbing his hands, pleased at his discovery. “I read 
a most enthusiastic article about you in a London 
paper, signed by de Rillac of ‘Comoedia’ ; de Rillac 
knows what he is talking about, and I lost no time 
in crossing the Channel; I want to be the first to 
pay homage to the new ‘Star.’ ” Louise looked at him 
incredulously. “Yes,” continued the manager; “those 
were his words, and after seeing your performance 
to-night I can repeat them with greater conviction.” 

Louise, shaking ’her head, murmured: “It is too 
much!” 

Wellsman, warming to his subject quickly, ex¬ 
plained his plans; “My idea is to bring to London a 
new form of entertainment—the French Revue. I 
saw in a moment you were just the artiste to place at 
the head of the Company—just the type of girl they 
will love in London; I can offer you an engagement 
for the entire season. If you are prepared to consider 


ROMANCE 


105 


this, I will settle the business with your agent.” He 
paused, looking for a flattering appreciation of his 
offer, but the dancer's face was a blank! “You don't 
understand?” 

“Pasun mot!” answered Louise, smiling nervously. 
“If you could talk a little more slow, I think, per¬ 
haps, I understand.” Whereupon Wellsman began 
all over again. 

When he had finished Louise threw out her hands 
hopelessly, exclaiming. 

“It is not possible! Your public will not under¬ 
stand my English!” 

“What our public cannot understand they think 
clever, so all foreign artists make a great success in 
London,” the manager answered reassuringly. 

Louise turned to Henriette and talked rapidly in 
French. “It is a wonderful chance,” she said, “but 
of course there is David to consider.” Henriette, 
who hated the idea of England, grasped eagerly at 
this straw. 

“Yes, mademoiselle, that is so,” she answered. 
“Ask him how long he can wait for an answer, and 
in the meantime you will hear from Monsieur 
David; who knows, perhaps he may not want you 
to go to England.” Louise accordingly asked Wells¬ 
man how long he could wait. 

“You promise to give me the first option on your 
services?” he asked. Louise nodded her assent. 


106 SURRENDER! 

“Then there is no immediate hurry at the moment * 
he said. “We shan't open for two months: I can 
give you a fortnight; that’s reasonable, isn’t it? ’ 

Louise accepted that and Wellsman took his leave 
yery pleased with himself. 

Henriette was grateful to him for one reason at 
any rate; he had given Louise something else to 
think about besides David’s departure; he had 
lessened the weight of that load by placing this 
opportunity within her grasp, but Henriette sighed 
to herself as she thought it might end in their having 
to take that terrible journey across the horrible Eng¬ 
lish Channel. 

As they wended their way home the idea began to 
take hold of Louise’s imagination; no longer Louise 
Boucher, a dancer at an obscure music hall on the 
outskirts of Paris, but a “Star” in a great city like 
London! She pictured David’s joy at her success. 

He would be certain to want her to go on with 
her career; and besides, London would be surely 
more acceptable to him than Paris for his next leave. 
Her spirits began to lighten within her the more she 
thought of this new project; fate was being kind 
to her after all, and everything was going to arrange 
itself; the future was beginning to take shape—she 
was to get the desire of her heart and David as well. 

In bed, as she turned over on her pillow, the offer 
to go to England came again into her mind; and as 


ROMANCE 


1071 

she debated within herself, tossing the idea this way; 
and that, and trying to look at it from every stand¬ 
point, it seemed to her it would be a good thing to 
go . . . Thoughts of failure never entered her head 
—she would be a success—she would be famous! 
But best of all, she could wait for David in London 
—it was his home—it would be her home too! 

It was midnight when Louise fell asleep; and 
twenty-four hours later it was zero hour in those 
cold, muddy rain-swept ruins that had once been 
Ypres. 

David, cold and weary, had arrived at the chateau 
behind the corps front, where his corps headquarters 
were situated, after a wretched journey in the 
crawling train to railhead and a bumping lorry to the 
chateau. 

There he learnt that a Staff meeting had been 
called for eleven a. m. that day; they contemplated 
taking a line of trenches which they had failed to do 
a fortnight previously and consolidating them if they 
could. “It was most important,” the General said, 
“that there should be no mistake this time”; and he 
wished David to supervise the R. E.’s part of the 
consolidation himself. 

As David left headquarters after learning what 
was to be done, and what was required of him, the 
A.D.M.S. plucked him by the arm. 

“Had a good leave?” he said. “You lucky dog.” 


108 


SURRENDER! 


David smiled. “Very, thanks,” he answered. “By 
the way, where’s de Rillac? I want to see him.” 

The A.D.M.S. shook his head. 

“They got him with a chance bomb outside Omar, 
the day before yesterday,” he replied. 

“Killed?” said David. 

“Blown to bits,” answered the A.D.M.S. 
laconically, as he turned away. 

Shortly after daybreak the next morning, when 
the lull in the firing betokened the oncoming counter 
attack, a telephone message was received at Head¬ 
quarters. 

“From Lieutenant Hylton Reese, R. E.’s, to G. 0. C. 

Captain Anson-Pond missing, believed severely 
wounded. I have taken over company till further 
orders.” 

As the days wore on, bringing an end to the first 
week after David’s departure, and there came no 
word from him, Louise became more and more 
apprehensive; by now she knew an opportunity 
must have presented itself, and still there was no 
letter. 

Her heart, elated at first at the idea of an English 
engagement, grew dull and heavy with the realiza¬ 
tion that something must have happened to David. 
She read with growing horror the gruesome details 


ROMANCE 


109 

of happenings at the front which filled the papers, 
till they became living realities, and turned into 
pictures which perpetually haunted her. Paragraphs 
appeared about the success of a small offensive 
carried out in the neighborhood of Ypres by the 
British army with the object of consolidating the 
position; the agony of doubt as the days went by 
was succeeded by a certainty in her mind that David 
must have been wounded; that he could be a 
prisoner or killed she never for a moment admitted 
to herself, or believed. 

Beside herself with grief, she relied more and more 
upon the steadiness and sagacity of Henriette, and 
the imperturbability of Joyce Lauder; for the latter, 
even though she believed in her inmost heart that 
David was a similar man to many others who had 
landed in France, and had only amused himself at 
the expense of Louise, was careful not to allow such 
an expression of opinion to escape her; and the two 
of them daily made excuses for David’s silence and 
strove continually to interest Louise in other things. 

It was with this object in view that Joyce, and 
eventually Henriette, in spite of her prejudices, urged 
Louise to accept the English manager’s offer; 
arguing that she could always return to Paris after 
the conclusion of the engagement, and if David had 
been seriously wounded, he would in all certainty 
be invalided home to England from where he would 


110 


SURRENDER! 


be sure to write to Louise. She could leave her 
London address with Joyce Lauder who would for¬ 
ward any letter that came, and once in England she 
could go and see David wherever he might have been 
taken. 

Louise listened to their persuasions with small 
attention at first, and it was only the thought that 
David, if wounded, would be sent home, which 
decided her to leave Paris without waiting any 
longer for his letter. 

Accordingly, she accepted the offer and the pass¬ 
port difficulties having been successfully surmounted, 
she gave Joyce Lauder her London address, and 
enjoined upon her with painful care the necessity 
of forwarding immediately any letter from the Front 
the moment it should arrive. And thus, three weeks 
after David’s hurried note of “goodbye” had been 
delivered at “La Mouche” by the chasseur of the 
Hotel Meurice, Louise left the country of her birth 
with the faithful Henriette. 


V 

THE BIRTH OF DAVEY 

T HE War for Vesta was beginning at last to 
assume a real guise; she was constantly meet¬ 
ing people who had sons and husbands at the front, 
and the consensus of their opinion, that the country 
had embarked on the greatest struggle in its history 
persuaded her that she too must take some hand in 
helping how best she could at home. 

The life of a woman of fashion which she had 
chosen for herself before, and after her marriage, 
stood revealed to her in the clash of arms, and the 
sea of blood, as the empty vanity of a stupid 
woman; there was no sweetness now in the gather¬ 
ings of her fellow butterflies; no pleasure in the 
vapid conversations of a group of dilettantes. 

She felt in her heart the reproach which a civilized 
community-presumably because of its civiliza¬ 

tion, did not openly hurl at her head—the reproach 
of barrenness; the harsh sayings of the Old Testa¬ 
ment stung her to sorrow, and the feeling of all true 
women in a great crisis, to send the dearest and the 

most cherished of their possessions—their son—to 
ill 


112 


SURRENDER! 


fight, even if it should have to be death that takes 
him away for ever, rose in her breast to leave a bitter 
sting. 

The world had returned to the bulwarks of the 
savage under the sound of the drum and the cry of 
the patriots, and the mother stood, as the Spartan 
mother had stood hundreds of years before, to watch 
the son depart for the wars. 

It was then that her heart cried out for the might- 
have-been; and she laughed bitterly when her 
friends congratulated her, with their tongues in their 
cheeks, on having no child at the front, and in con¬ 
sequence no anxiety. 

She had only David, upon whom her thoughts 
latterly had turned to gentleness, whilst her spirit 
almost knew the meaning of the word "love,” as 
she dwelt upon his absence. The knowledge that he 
had taken his leave in Paris embittered her as it 
would not have done at the beginning of the 
struggle; she imagined that he did not care to 
return to her, even for so short a time. 

Since David’s letter, telling her that he had been 
given a short leave to Paris, Vesta had not heard 
from him, and his silence began to have a disturbing 
effect on her. With a fuller realization of the 
dangers and hardships which he must be enduring, 
she began in her soul to take herself seriously to 
task for the conduct of her life with him. 


THE BIRTH OF DAVEY 113 

As a woman of fashion, she realized that the 
present crisis found her an unaccomplished person 
except in one direction—she could organize and she 
could entertain, and this she prepared to do. She 
placed her house in South Audley Street at the dis¬ 
posal of the medical authorities, and at their instance 
ishe equipped it with a number of beds, and with 
nurses supplied from the hospitals, commenced to 
run a convalescent home. 

She had written nothing of this to David, prefer¬ 
ring to wait until the details had been concluded 
before she said anything, but now she was waiting 
anxiously for his answer, hoping that his letter might 
perhaps contain some expression of feeling for her, 
more affectionate and less strained, in consequence 
of her enterprise. 

But like Louise, she waited in vain: his weekly 
letter was not delivered. When it was three weeks 
overdue, there came one in its stead from the 
General, expressing sympathy for her and attempting 
to instill courage, in which he told shortly of the 
successful consolidation of the line, and of the 
belief of the N.C.O., who had had a miraculous 
escape, that David, who was missing, was alive but 
severely wounded. 

Missing and severely wounded; even perhaps 
dead! The bitterness of her soul was completed. 


114 SURRENDER! 

A fortnight later in the casualty list there 
appeared- 

“Missing, reported wounded. 

Captain D. Anson-Pond, R. E.” 

Vesta realized that there was nothing to be done 
now except to wait. So on the day that Louise 
sailed for England, Vesta joined the great army of 
women who didn’t know if any real future would 
be theirs or if the rest of life would be but a weary 
remembering of days that were gone—the unfor¬ 
tunates who waited; though they believed or pre¬ 
tended to believe, that they would hear good news 
on the morrow. 

Louise on her arrival in England had gone at once 
to the War Office to inquire for Captain Compton 
of the Royal Engineers; in vain she questioned, 
stormed and cried; the officials were sympathetic: 
they had no news of the death or wounding of any 
officer of that name. 

There was nothing for her to do except to wait 
also; and she returned to her hotel in a spirit of 
hopeful despair and in a state of perpetual brooding 
and yearning—the longing to know, and at the 
same time the dread of knowing; and so the shuttle 
of life drew in the innumerable strands and wove 
them into its tapestry—crossing and re-crossing 
together the loose threads in the destinies of Louise 
and Vesta. 


115 


THE BIRTH OF DAVEY 

Louise’s first appearance on the London stage had 
been hastened owing to the unexpected failure of the 
previous revue; and she found herself plunged into 
a whirl of hurried rehearsals. For professional 
reasons it was decided the name of Louise Boucher 
was not chic , and her manager having urged her 
to choose another, which should be attractive for a 
dancer, sh§ chose that of Deloryse, and as such she 
was billed all over London, together with laudable 
addition of—“the great French dancer.” 

The success of Deloryse was instantaneous— 
London was enraptured with the new dancer—she 
became the fashion—the little French girl with the 
large eyes and piquant face. 

It was shortly after this that her mind suddenly 
became uplifted by a knowledge which at first she 
strove to keep from Henriette, but later, owing to 
the gladness of her heart she felt she must confide. 

“Henriette,” she said one evening, humming to 
herself, “I have something to tell you.” 

Henriette, who had been greatly relieved lately at 
seeing much of the deep sadness leave the face of 
Louise, went over to her. 

“What is that, ma petite f” she asked. 

“I am going to have a son,” answered Louise 
simply. 

Henriette stood for a moment in silence, and then 


116 SURRENDER! 

bending down she drew Louise’s head upon her 
breast. 

“A child, ma petite ” she said. “I am very glad 
for you, and Monsieur David, he will be pleased 
when he knows.” 

“That will be the great thing,” answered Louise. 
“His son, my David’s son.” 

“It may be a girl,” said Henriette laughing. But 
Louise shook her head decisively. 

“A son,” she answered, “I know it will be a son; 
and David will come back and we shall live happy 
ever after; he, the great engineer; and I, the great 
dancer; and you, and—little Davey; that is what 
I shall call him—David, after his father,” sighing 
contentedly. “Life is wonderful, Henriette.” 

“Very wonderful, ma petite ” answered Henriette. 

Into the dressing room of the successful dancer 
poured officers with and without their ladies, political 
and theatrical celebrities and innumerable social 
lights: among the conglomerate throng that were 
nightly introduced by someone else whom Louise 
had had to receive, for one reason or another, there 
appeared a Doctor Gavron from one of the big 
hospitals. 

To him Louise took an immediate liking; a clever 
brow under which gleamed kindly eyes that showed 
a ready sympathy distinguished him from others of 
the medical profession who had become her 


THE BIRTH OF DAVEY 117 

acquaintances, and to him Louise resolved to con¬ 
fide her secret. 

As she had supposed, Gavron listened with 
sympathy to her story; she constituted him her 
medical adviser and shortly after this, taking a 
cottage in the country on his advice, she left the 
cast, pleading as her excuse that she was on the 
verge of a nervous breakdown. 

Gavron had advised this subterfuge, pointing out 
the peculiarities of the English character when con¬ 
fronted with anything approaching an irregularity 
in the conventions; and Louise had reluctantly 
consented, though her whole being wanted to pro¬ 
claim that she was to have the child; and whether 
she was married or not seemed to her to be a small 
matter compared with the pride of motherhood. 

During her enforced stay in the little cottage in 
the country, where the heather and gorse grew 
almost to the door, and where the silence of isolation 
brought in its train a reasoned contemplation, Louise 
bethought herself of de Rillac and of his introduc¬ 
tion of David those long weeks ago. 

She accordingly wrote to him care of the news¬ 
paper for which he wrote, asking for news of David; 
but when the editor answered saying he had taken 
the liberty of opening de Rillac’s letter, thinking it 
was of a business nature, and that he had been killed 
in France some months previously, she faced in her 


118 SURRENDER! 

solitude for the first time the idea that David was 
dead. 

With the realization of that idea there surged in 
her heart a great longing for her coming child, which 
was to provide for her the only link with those dear 
moments so short but so enduring which had now 
passed beyond recall. 

She fashioned for this child in her imagination the 
life of an Englishman; he, for she never permitted 
herself to imagine that the child might be a daughter, 
should be educated in England, and the language of 
the household should be English. Her own had 
much improved since her theatrical engagement, and 
Henriette too had succeeded in learning quite enough 
to make herself understood. 

David was an engineer, he had told her so; then 
the little Davey must be an engineer also. He must 
be a man of whom his father would have been 
proud; and as her thoughts dwelt upon her child 
and her hopes became centered in him, the time of 
her waiting became very irksome to her. 

Doctor Gavron, her sole friend and confidant of 
her secret aspirations and hopes, smiled kindly at 
her when she talked unceasingly to him upon the 
advent of the child; but to Henriette he whispered 
that she must take great care of Deloryse. 

“She is not so strong as she looks, Henriette,” 
he said, holding up a warning finger. “You must 


THE BIRTH OF DAVEY 


119 


see she does not overdo things. She must get as 
much rest as she can; I am not at all satisfied with 
her condition; her heart is by no means strong; and 
it has been overcharged with sorrow; it has been 
greatly strained.” 

Henriette promised to see that she rested, but 
Louise was not the kind of woman to be tied to a 
bedpost; she liked to roam the country and enjoy its 
beauties; she was restless by nature, and the ab¬ 
sence of her dancing was a great loss too; in con¬ 
sequence Henriette found the promise a hard one to 
fulfil, though she did her best for the woman she 
adored, whilst secretly cursing the chance that had 
brought David into the life of her loved one. 

It was about this time, six months after his de¬ 
parture from Paris, that Vesta, still waiting and 
watching anxiously for news, received a letter 
written in a strange hand from a German hospital. 

In it she learnt for the first time of David’s well¬ 
being: a shell had burst hard by, and with his right 
arm badly shattered and unconscious from the 
shock of the explosion he had fallen into the hands 
of the Germans. Even now, he explained, he could 
not write himself, and a fellow prisoner had offered 
to write for him. The doctors had deliberated whe¬ 
ther to amputate the arm or not, but had finally 
decided to try and save it, though very afraid of 
tetanus. Now, however, the wounds were progress- 


120 


SURRENDER! 


ing well and he was beginning to feel a little better, 
though still very weak. He was also suffering from 
gas poisoning which had affected his lungs. This 
latter he thought would take a long time to get rid 
of. He sent his love. 

David had been permitted by the hospital au¬ 
thorities to send one letter: he had hesitated a long 
time to whom he should write. He realized now 
that he would in all probability remain a prisoner 
in Germany till the end of the war; his health alone 
prevented any possibility of escape, even if such 
were capable of being managed. He had not been 
killed, as he had thought would be the outcome of 
his venture; and if he got well, as now seemed 
probable, at the end of the War he would have to 
face the future as he had faced the past. 

Six months of continued pain and the knowledge 
that death had stood upon the threshold brought 
with them the old desire to make the best of his life 
with Vesta; and his absence from his business for 
so long had awakened a renewed sense of keenness 
in its welfare. In the quiet of his sickbed his 
thoughts revolved fresh schemes for its aggrandize¬ 
ment : and a longing to be at work again took hold 
of him. 

Ever across these thoughts there flitted the 
smiling child face of Louise, the girl he had met in 
Paris. In his first conscious moments he had 


THE BIRTH OF DAVEY 


121 


thought of her, and little else; then gradually her 
face had become ousted by those other new 
thoughts. She did not fit in with the aggrandize¬ 
ment of his business; he owed, after all, some sort 
of duty to Yesta, a primary duty. 

The few days in Paris assumed the guise of a 
dream to him; he felt about them as one does on 
reading a sonnet: short, and a lasting sense of sweet¬ 
ness ; but there were no more lines to be added to it, 
the form forbade such addition. 

“What was the use of re-opening this episode with 
Louise?” The question repeated itself again and 
again; and each time he answered it differently, but 
reason prevailed, and at last he was compelled to 
acknowledge to himself, “No good whatever.” She 
would soon forget the five or six days of their friend¬ 
ship, there were so many other days in a lifetime. 
If he wrote to her, then sooner or later there would 
have to be explanations: and then what? 

This frame of mind led him to write to Vesta, 
and once he had done this, he felt the die had been 
cast; and with a sigh of regret he resolutely put 
away from his mind all thoughts of Louise, her 
appartement, the days and nights of their short 
existence together. 

Sometimes, like a will-o’-the-wisp, she would 
peep out from behind some gigantic crane he was 
raising in his imagination, smile and beckon to him; 


122 SURRENDER! 

but then a moment later she would be lost in the 
dark marshes of his schemes, only to return in 
moments when he had nothing else about which to 
think. 

His arm grew gradually well; but, as he had sur¬ 
mised, his lungs continued to be aggravated by the 
gas, and his health, after reaching a certain point of 
recovery, stood still, awaiting the keen air of Swit¬ 
zerland or the conditions of a complete luxury. 

Vesta feted and dined generals and promising 
Staff captains from the War Office with a view to 
getting him exchanged, but all her efforts, in spite 
of assurances both vague and definite, were fruitless; 
and he continued to remain a prisoner of war in 
Germany. 

Louise, meanwhile, watched over by the faithful 
Henriette, and attended anxiously by Doctor Gav- 
ron, was approaching the hour of her deliverance; 
buoyed up by her intense longing for her child, she 
faced the ordeal bravely and with a confidence which 
was Gavron’s principal hope, and which he never 
lost an opportunity of encouraging, though the 
heart weakness caused him to fear that her delivery 
would be by no means a simple one. 

He was right, for the heart of Louise gave way 
under the strain, and she hovered for a night upon 
the border of death. Her own will to live, however, 
asserted itself, and twenty-four hours after the birth 


THE BIRTH OF DAVEY 123 

of the child, she opened her eyes and whispered to 
Henriette—“Well?” 

“Le petit, c’est un gargon,” replied Henriette, 
gently. 

“You mean,” said Louise faintly, “it is a boy; 
you must speak English now; I shall call him 
David.” And with that thought in her mind she 
went contentedly off to sleep. 

When Louise had fully recovered, Gavron took 
her seriously to task and even suggested that she 
should give up dancing altogether; her heart and 
strength having been so overtaxed. 

But Louise felt her strength returning to her, 
and with her son as the light of her eyes, she refused 
altogether to leave the stage. 

“Besides, if I give up my dancing, how shall I 
and my little one, and Henriette live?” she asked 
plaintively. “Ah no! You talk foolish, my friend!” 
So it was she came back and London welcomed her 
with undiminished fervor in spite of air raids, 
alarums and other excursions. 

The little cottage in Surrey was kept on for the 
time being—it was best for the boy, and there Hen¬ 
riette remained in charge; Louise motoring down 
every night after her work was done. 

As the months dropped by she established herself 
firmly upon the ladder of success, and in addition 
to her theatrical engagements became eagerly sought 


124 


SURRENDER! 


after by society hostesses, in aid of charities and 
other like enterprises. 

Vesta who had continued to maintain her house 
at South Audley Street as a hospital, had reluc¬ 
tantly towards the autumn of 1918, at the instance 
of the authorities had to transfer her patients to 
another center; everything was organized now, and 
the policy of centralization caused her to lose her 
patients. From that moment she sought a new line 
of activity compatible with her experience, and this 
took the form of organising flag-days, balls, and 
entertainments in the cause of charity. 

She was at home in this sort of work, and she 
enjoyed it; she had enjoyed doing it in the old days 
when she had no end in view except amusement; 
she enjoyed it all the more now when there was an 
object for that amusement. 

She soon discovered when she entered into the 
field of society hostesses who were devoting their 
time to that sort of thing, that Deloryse, a dancer 
whom everyone seemed to know, was always willing 
to help any charity in any way she was capable. 

To Louise accordingly she addressed herself, and 
so it came to pass that just before the armistice 
they met; the wife and the dream woman of David 
Anson-Pond. 

To Vesta, Louise seemed a woman in the disguise 
of the girl; for whilst keeping her almost childish 


THE BIRTH OF DAVEY 


125 


expression of joy and innocence, the latter had 
become a woman in her practicability; whilst her 
eyes betrayed a hidden sadness which at moments 
seemed to dominate her mind to such an 
extent that the years piled themselves upon her 
until she seemed to be almost middle-aged. It was 
an intriguing personality to Vesta and she took a 
much more personal interest in her than she did in 
the other artists who gave their services for the 
causes she chose to champion. 

To Louise, Vesta seemed much the same as other 
English women; she had never understood their 
reserve, and their air of coldness; and Vesta, in 
spite of her feelings having changed inwardly, main¬ 
tained outwardly to a marked degree that charac¬ 
teristic of extreme iciness. Well coiffeured and 
beautifully gowned, she did not look a woman who 
would ever permit any kind of familiarity, what¬ 
ever she might gain by it, and this attitude of hers 
towards life and theatrical life in particular, did 
not induce any warmth of feeling for her in the 
thoughts of Louise. 

The summer of 1919 brought Vesta the news that 
David had been sent to Switzerland, and throwing 
up the remainder of her social engagements she 
hastened to his side; she had much to explain; much 
for which to ask forgiveness. 


126 


SURRENDER! 


She found David anxious to return, but warned 
by the doctors to be patient, until his lungs showed 
some sign of returning strength. She found him 
thinner than when he had gone away, and there was 
much gray in what had been the black hair of 
nearly five years before; but he found her out¬ 
wardly the same well-cared-for, well-preserved 
woman from whom he had fled. 

When, however, she spoke to him of her fears 
for his safety, her gladness at his recovery, and her 
hope of the future, he relented from an attitude of 
careless ease, and there came into his heart a kindly 
feeling for his wife who now admitted to him for 
the first time how lonely it had been with no 
children, and how much she wanted to make up to 
him in contrition for the wrong she had done to 
him, the wrong which had now become irreparable. 

David in consequence of her self pity, determined 
to try and make their future brighter if he could 
than had been their past; her own feeling upon the 
question of her having no children, had robbed his 
disappointed heart of a great deal of bitterness, and 
he no longer cried out against her. Matters could 
not be mended, and it was for them to make the 
best of themselves since there were no others to 
come after. 

Vesta, after a short sojourn with him in Switzer¬ 
land, returned to England, and set about preparing 


127 


THE BIRTH OF DAVEY 

Sjouth Audley Street for his return whilst at the 
same time she went down to his offices in Victoria 
Street at his direction to send out one of the man¬ 
agers to him in Switzerland, so that he might 
gradually become thoroughly acquainted with the 
progress of affairs during his long absence, and he 
prepared to enter once again into his harness with 
an up-to-date knowledge of the firm’s commitments 
and position. 

Thus when David returned the following year, 
took the head of his table once again in South 
Audley Street, and wheeled his revolving chair again 
in his office at Victoria Street, the balance had been 
restored. Nineteen fourteen had come back again, 
and the intervening years had fled their way to the 
stars, leaving outwardly no change in the state of 
affairs at his home or in his business. Only between 
Vesta and David the hatchet had been buried, and 
the swollen torrents had subsided to an even stream 
which flowed daily in a quiet fashion towards the 
open sea. 

But in those years London had discovered a new 
favorite; and garish lights in Shaftesbury Avenue 
flashed out over the hubbub of the centre of the 
universe in red and white, the name of—“Deloryse ’ 
.—the dancer; the little girl whom David had known 
those happy days in Paris, and whose image now; 
rested asleep and unstirred in his mind. 






r 


( 


'V 
















PART II 
























VI 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 

D AVID threw himself into the business with a 
new zest; the years that had parted him from 
his work had borne a desire to break out into new 
fields, and the feeling of staleness which had per¬ 
vaded his mind in 1914, had now given way to a 
keenness which he had not experienced since he first 
went into the business under the guidance of his 
father. 

In consequence of this, he worked for long hours 
and seemed loath to enter into any amusements. 
Arriving home in time for dinner, tired with the 
long day’s exertion, he settled down of an evening 
to a pipe and a book, and let the world pass by un¬ 
noticed. 

This state of affairs had proved satisfactory to 
Vesta at the beginning, but after a month or two 
she found the lethargy a little tedious, with thet 
result that she began in some manner to return to 
her old society fads which the War had broken up; 
and finally accepted Lady Dorchester’s invitation to 
go to one of her dances which she gave periodically 
131 


132 


SURRENDER! 


for the amusement of herself and her daughters, 
and which she invariably called “small,” although 
several hundred people were jostling each other 
uncomfortably by half past eleven. 

She had really only accepted for the purpose of 
inducing Lady Dorchester to look in at a Charity 
Rail to be given at the Ritz the following night. 
She had consented to act as one of the hostesses of 
this, and had written to Deloryse some time pre¬ 
viously begging her to help by givinr an exhibition 
dance. This, Deloryse had consented to do; and 
Vesta had been loud in her praises to David of the 
generosity of the famous dancer, but David did not 
know who Deloryse was, and cared less. Vesta had, 
however, succeeded in persuading him to put in an 
appearance at the Charity Ball, and in view of that 
David refused point blank to be dragged to Lady 
Dorchester’s as well. 

The result of his refusal was that Vesta an¬ 
nounced her intention of dining out with a party 
and going on with them afterwards to Lady Dor¬ 
chester’s; and David decided to dine quietly at the 
Club and go early to bed. 

His appearances at the Club had been so spas¬ 
modic since his return that Travers-Smith greeted 
him with great effusion. 

“Never see anything of you now,” he grumbled. 
“Turning into a hermit, aren’t you?” 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 


133 


“I'm very busy,” answered David laconically. 
“War’s played ducks and drakes with everything.” 

“Well, everyone would have it,” replied Travers- 
Smith. “You ought to be thankful things aren’t 
worse.” 

“I am,” said David, “but that doesn’t make them 
any better, does it?” 

“How’s your wife?” asked Travers-Smith by way 
of changing the subject. 

“All right, thanks,” answered David. “She’s 
going to a dance at Lady Dorchester’s to-night.” 

“That’s where you ought to be,” said Travers- 
Smith quickly, “instead of loafing about this place.” 

“What about yourself?” replied David smiling. 
“You’re just as bad; why aren’t you doing some¬ 
thing hectic; if that’s the proper thing to do.” 

“I am going to shortly,” said Travers-Smith. 
“Williams, McAllister and I are going on to the 
Rivoli after a spot to eat here.” 

“Why, what’s on at the Rivoli?” asked David in 
an uninterested voice. 

“Deloryse in her new show,” said Travers-Smith, 
“and damned good she is too.” 

“Oh, the dancer,” said David, “she’s dancing to¬ 
morrow night for my wife at some charity affair.” 

“I suppose you’ve seen her?” said Travers-Smith. 

David shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything,” 
he answered. 


134 


SURRENDER! 


Travers-Smith considered him for a moment. 
“Look here,” he said suddenly, “why don’t you join 
us to-night? We’ve got a box; one more doesn’t 
make any odds.” 

David shook his head, “It’s very good of you,” he 
answered, “but honestly I’m too tired; besides I’ve 
lost all interest in the theatre.” 

Williams and McAlister came through the swing 
doors at that moment into the smoking room. 

“I was just asking Anson-Pond to come along,” 
explained Travers-Smith, “and he won’t do it! He’s 
never seen Deloryse!” 

Williams looked incredulous. 

“Never seen Deloryse?” he said in a surprised 
voice. “The man must be mad. You will certainly 
come to-night, Anson-Pond. Won’t he, Mac?” 

“He will,” answered McAlister, “and he will have 
a Martini here and now.” 

David continued to protest whilst the cocktails 
were being brought, but seeing that further argu¬ 
ment would only give offence to them all, he re¬ 
luctantly consented to dine with them and go on 
to Hie theatre. 

An hour later from his comer seat in the box, 
David surveyed the very full house, and turned ex¬ 
pectantly to watch the performance as the clapping 
from the pit and gallery announced the first entrance 
of Deloryse. 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 


135 


As she appeared at the back of the stage, David 
became conscious that there was something familiar 
in the presence of this dancer; and the lack of in¬ 
terest disappeared from his eyes, as leaning slightly 
forward he obtained a better look at her. 

His mind at first refused to recognize her; and as 
he watched her every movement intently, his brain 
kept on repeating, “It can’t be Louise; she couldn’t 
possibly be here;” but gradually his vision became 
clarified, and he realized beyond a doubt that De- 
loryse was the little French girl he had known in 
Paris those many years back. Her face seemed 
fuller to him, and she had grown in that interval 
of time from a girl into a woman; but her voice, as 
she spoke her lines, was almost her voice of old, 
though that too sounded stronger. 

“Isn’t she wonderful?” whispered Travers-Smith 
in his ear. 

“She always was,” said David unthinkingly. 

“I thought you said you hadn’t seen her,” whis¬ 
pered back Travers-Smith. 

“Neither I have,” answered David, adding in a 
hestitating voice, “in England.” 

As the evening wore slowly on, David began to 
realize his position. Louise knew Vesta, and was 
to dance for her the next night; if he went to the 
ball he must meet her; even if he didn’t go, there 


136 SURRENDER! 

would come a time later on when he would be 
bound to face her again. 

His caravan which he thought had started for 
“dawn of nothing” had not reached any illimitable 
space, but had debouched along the way of life, and 
must be driven towards its predestined end. There 
was to be no turning back for him; there was no 
opportunity for him to do so. 

He must explain quietly now to Louise or Vesta; 
to one of them or both; otherwise anything might 
be the outcome. 

As he looked at Louise again and again, the 
memories of the other days came flooding his 
thoughts, and the idea took hold of him that she 
would now possibly have forgotten all about him. 
An unreasoning jealousy possessed him and stirred 
his anger against the newcomer whoever he might 
be; but when that mood had passed, he hoped 
perhaps there might be someone else for whom she 
cared; everything would then work out simply and 
he and Louise could pretend that they had never 
met each other: and Vesta would never know. 

But he must communicate with Louise, he must 
see her before the ball the next night; he must get 
the explanation such as it was, over as soon as 
possible. He fumbled in his pocket for a pencil, 
and taking the program wrote on the back of it: 

“I have been sitting in a box staring at you in 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 137 

wonder. I can hardly believe my own eyes. Are 
you really the little Lolo I met in Paris? For the 
moment I can only scribble this short note. Send 
me your address and I will come and see you to¬ 
night after the theatre. I want to see you alone. 
David.” 

Hastily folding the program up, he went out 
of the box and finding the commissionaire at the 
entrance, he had the message sent round before he 
returned. 

A few minutes later there was a tap on Louise’s 
dressing room door; she was making a quick change 
for her final scene, and the dresser who had opened 
the door in response to the knock looked doubtfully 
at the program thrust into her hand by the stage 
doorkeeper. 

“A message for Madame Deloryse,” said the door¬ 
keeper, “and there’s an answer.” 

The dresser turned the program over in her hands 
as she made her way back to Deloryse. 

“Well, what is it?” asked Louise. 

“A message, Madame,” said the dresser, handing 
over the program. 

Louise seated on a chair took the program 
curiously from the dresser and put out her feet to 
receive her shoes. She scanned the writing hurriedly 
and then the truth burst upon her. David! her 


138 


SURRENDER! 


David had returned! He was there in front! He 
had seen her! he wanted her address! 

“Tim is waiting for the answer?” she asked ex¬ 
citedly. 

“Yes, Madame,” replied the dresser, trying to 
fasten the strap of her shoe. Louise rushed 
hurriedly to the door, leaving the dresser seated on 
the floor. 

“Tim,” she called to the doorkeeper. “The 
answer is 14 King’s Terrace; you won’t forget,” she 
went on breathlessly, “had 1 better write it down?” 

Tim looked at her in astonishment. 

“As if I didn’t know your address, Madame?” he 
answered. “Do you think I’d forget it?” 

“No, no, of course not,” answered Louise in an 
excited voice, “only be quick, Tim, he may have 
gone! Promise me you’ll find him.” 

“Good lord, madame,” replied Tim. “The front 
of the house will find him all right before the 
curtain goes up on the act.” 

Louise rushed back into her dressing room, and 
the dresser endeavored to fasten her shoes whilst 
Louise became more and more agitated every 
moment. 

The full significance of David’s return now began 
to make itself felt, and her face looked pallid in spite 
of her make up; her eyes became feverish in the 
anxiety of her mind to try and see David for herself 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 


139 


amongst the audience; without waiting for the 
call boy's knock and warning she hurriedly put on 
more rouge and left the dressing-room, passing down 
the stone corridor with flying feet. Impatiently she 
waited “in the wings" for her cue, tapping the boards 
with a restless foot, eager to get on the stage—not 
to be seen, but to see for herself if the miracle was 
true. 

As she danced towards the footlights her eyes 
quickly scanned the boxes; there was one with four 
men; she had been vaguely conscious of it on her 
first entrance, the upper one on the left. For a 
moment she hesitated as if fearing to look—then 
lifting her eyes, she saw David. It was only a 
second's pause—a great moment—and then she 
whirled on in the dance! 

She strove to keep her eyes fastened on his face 
as round and round she went; but her line of sight 
was shut in first by one chorus girl and then by 
another. It was with difficulty she suppressed the 
desire to sweep them all off the stage—an inner 
voice was crying out)—“Leave me alone with him!" 
At last it was over, the final curtain came down, she 
stepped forward; she had nerved herself for this 
moment; she bowed to the audience before her, and 
to the right of her, then she turned to the box on 
the left and as she bowed she smiled up at David; 
and a moment after she had seen him face to face, 


140 


SURRENDER! 


her vitality fled from her. As the curtain descended, 
the lights appeared to grow dim: there came a 
thundering in her ears, and an enveloping darkness 
—she had fainted. 

The curtain was not raised again in spite of re¬ 
peated calls for Deloryse, and the band playing “God 
Save the King,” the audience wandered wonderingly 
away. 

The men in the box were very pleased with them¬ 
selves—Deloryse had smiled at them, but only 
David knew the smile was meant for him, and 
agitated by the way she had signalled him out, he 
followed his three companions, going back with them 
to the club: his mind a prey to conflicting thoughts, 
whilst he repeated her address again and again to 
himself, lest he should forget it. 

But behind the scenes confusion reigned: Louise 
had been carried back to her dressing room and 
Doctor Gavron was telephoned for; in the meantime 
some brandy having been given to her, she gradually 
revived. 

As soon as she had recovered sufficiently to realize 
what was going on around her she sent everyone 
away, and on her dresser attempting to take off her 
stage costume, she waved her aside. 

“There is no time to-night,” she said hurriedly. 
“I shall be late.” 

Her face still white and pinched with the strain 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 


141 


of excitement, she descended the stone steps leading 
to the stage door, and refusing to wait for Gavron 
was driven home to await the arrival of David. 

Meanwhile, the dresser fearing that Deloryse was 
ill had telephoned immediately after her departure 
to her flat, telling them of her fainting attack, and 
that she was already on her way home. Miss Wilson, 
Louise’s secretary, full of agitation rushed into the 
boudoir where Henriette, peacefully knitting, 
awaited the nightly return of Louise. 

“Henriette,” called Miss Wilson excitedly. 

“Hush,” said Henriette putting her fingers to her 
lips, “you will wake the boy.” 

“They’ve telephoned from the theatre,” continued 
Miss Wilson, paying no attention to Henriette’s 
admonition. “Something dreadful must have 
happened to Madame.” 

“To Madame!” exclaimed Henriette, putting 
down her knitting. “How? What do they say?” 

“Madame fainted after the performance,” 
answered Miss Wilson. 

“What a fuss,” said Henriette, resuming her knit¬ 
ting. “I thought something serious had happened 
to her. She has fainted before and is well the next 
day; you go to bed. I can look after her.” 

Miss Wilson held out a package which she had 
in her hand. 

“Very well,” she answered, feeling rather crushed. 


142 


SURRENDER! 


“Give this to little Davey when he wakes up in the 
morning, will you? For his birthday.” 

Henriette took the package from her and sighed. 

“Thank you, I will give it,” she said. 

Miss Wilson turned back at hearing her sigh. 

“Why so sad about it?” she asked. “A birthday 
is a happy day, isn’t it?” 

“Happy?” returned Henriette sourly. “Not for 
Madame! Not for the boy! Four years has 
Madame waited . . . peace has come, but no father 
comes for her boy.” 

As she said these words, the outer door was heard 
to bang and Louise dressed in her bizarre ballet dress 
burst into the room. 

“Has he come?” she exclaimed. 

“No one has called, Madame,” said Miss Wilson 
quietly. “I hope you are feeling better?” 

Louise looked from one to the other in her ex¬ 
citement; the rest in the car had served to quiet 
her heart, and the color had ebbed back to her 
cheeks. 

“I feel,” she answered, flinging aside her cloak, 
“so happy; my heart, is nearly bursting.” She 
turned to Miss Wilson. “Willy,” she continued, “I 
must tell you—no—I will not—you shall see for 
yourself, very soon you shall see.” She turned 
away from Miss Wilson to Henriette. “Henriette,” 
she went on, “I will tell you the secret,” putting an 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 143 

arm round her shoulders. “Little Davey’s father 
has come!” 

Henriette startled out of her usual sangfroid, ex¬ 
claimed “Mon Dieu!” 

“He is in London,” exclaimed Louise in a breath¬ 
less voice. 

“It cannot be true,” exclaimed Henriette. 

“It is! It is!” vociferated Louise. “I had a note 
from him, 'My David’! I opened it.” She paused, 
“And then what do you think I did?—I fainted,” 
she continued with a quaint smile, “and when I 
woke up the manager—the stage-manager—oh, such 
a crowd around me: they telephoned for Dr. Gav- 
ron, but I couldn’t wait for Gawy, could I? I was 
afraid David might arrive before me, and go away, 
and I should lose him—perhaps never to find him 
again!” 

“He will come,” said Henriette in an encouraging 
voice. “Any minute he will be here!” 

“Even one minute,” answered Louise, “is too long 
after years of waiting.” 

Miss Wilson had been listening to this conversa¬ 
tion with a certain amount of wonderment. Louise 
had never disclosed to her in so many words her 
secret, but she had picked up some threads in the 
occasional conversations of Henriette and Louise 
which she had overheard. 

“Don’t forget, Madame,” she interrupted at this 


,144 


SURRENDER! 


point, “your engagement at Lady Dorchester’s to¬ 
night. And to-morrow you are full up as well.” 

Louise turned around upon her petulantly. “I 
will forget it, Willy,” she answered. “How can you 
be so cruel as to remind me. As for to-morrow—” 
she shook her finger at Miss Wilson. “To-morrow,” 
she laughed, “you will close the doors; no one shall 1 
take a minute away from my David.” 

Miss Wilson shrugged her shoulders. “They are 
all important people,” she hazarded. 

“I don’t care who they are,” answered Louise 
impatiently: “David is the only important person in 
the wide, wide world.” 

A knock at the outside door at that moment re¬ 
duced the room to confusion and Louise fled pre¬ 
cipitately towards the bedroom. 

“He has come,” she said, “and I am not ready: 
quick, quick, Henriette, help me to dress—the pink 
dress; the new one!” 

Miss Wilson left the boudoir to answer the knock 
and found not David, as Louise had expected, but 
Vesta waiting on the door-mat. 

“Madame Deloryse is in?” she asked anxiously. 
“I must see her a moment.” 

Miss Wilson undecided what to answer, asked her 
to wait, and leaving her in the hall hurried back to 
the boudoir where Louise standing at her bedroom 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 145 

door with Henriette trying to fasten her dress was 
looking anxiously out for David. 

“He has come?” Louise ejaculated in a breath¬ 
less voice. 

“It is not a man,” answered Miss Wilson. “It is 
Mrs. Anson-Pond who wants to see you.” 

Louise made a movement of feverish impatience. 

“I will not see anyone,” she answered, “except 
David. Am I not dancing for her to-morrow night, 
is it not enough? Must I dance attendance on her 
as well?” 

Miss Wilson waited for a moment. 

“Ill say you are not at home then?” she ques¬ 
tioned. 

Louise considered for a minute. 

“No,” she answered, changing her mind, “that 
would offend her. I would not do that. Say I will 
see her but for a moment only.” 

Miss Wilson went out hurriedly and Louise as 
Henriette finished fastening her dress, glanced for a 
moment towards little Davey’s bedroom. 

“Little Davey?” she questioned. “He is all 
right?” 

“He sleeps,” answered Henriette, turning back to 
Louise’s bedroom. 

“Ah, how can he sleep,” exclaimed Louise, “with 
his father coming to-night?” 


146 


SURRENDER! 


Henriette closed the bedroom door softly behind 
her as Miss Wilson announced Mrs. Anson-Pond. 

Vesta came quickly into the room and looked 
keenly at Louise. 

“Thank heaven, Deloryse, you are not ill,” she 
said, her voice echoing the relief she felt at seeing 
Louise apparently recovered. 

“Ah, Mrs. Anson-Pond,” answered Louise, her 
voice still excited and high-pitched. “I am standing 
on my head.” 

“Why, what’s wrong?” asked Vesta in surprise. 

Louise, who felt that the reappearance of David 
was a fact so wonderful that the whole world should 
be told of it, exclaimed— 

“It is joy ... it is happiness!” 

Vesta moved impatiently. 

“What fools they are at the theatre,” she said, 
“they gave me such a shock. I looked in at the 
theatre to see you about to-morrow night, and they 
told me you were ill and had gone home suddenly. 
I thought of my ball and what a failure it would be 
without you, and rushed here panic-stricken.” 

Louise laughed. “And you find me en fete” she 
replied hysterically. 

Vesta looked around her to discover any signs of 
a party. 

“You have a party here to-night?” she asked. 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 147 

“A very important party/’ answered Louise 
happily. “One man! One big one!” 

“Who is the lucky man?” asked Yesta curiously. 

“Ah,” said Louise, “he is a surprise ... my man. 
My boy’s father, he came home to-night.” 

Yesta who had heard of Louise’s child over the 
tattle of teacups raised her eyebrows in surprise; she 
had mentally consigned Louise’s husband or lover, 
she thought probably the latter, to the recesses of 
the past, which are not to be reopened. 

“I’m not sure I am glad—you’ll hate me for saying 
it,” she said at last, after an appreciable pause. 

“You are not glad for me?” interrupted Louise in 
surprise. 

“Oh, I’m thinking of what people will say,” 
answered Yesta naively. “Everyone will be jealous 
of this all-of-a-sudden jack-in-the-box husband; it’s 
fearfully upsetting you know. The men will be 
heartbroken, for,” she hesitated a moment and then 
continued, “husbands are such an unromantic at¬ 
tachment for a great artiste; the better the hus¬ 
band, the greater annoyance he is.” 

She put out her hand in a friendly fashion towards 
Louise. “Don’t misunderstand me,” she continued, 
“I don’t want to be unkind. It’s your own interest 
I have at heart, and seriously, you mustn’t allow 
this man to spoil your career.” 


148 


SURRENDER! 


“Oh,” retorted Louise happily, “it is only me he 
will spoil.” 

“If he monopolizes you,” answered Vesta smiling, 
“he’ll be the most hated man in London.” 

Louise revelling in the idea of being monopolized 
by David shook her head in contradiction. 

“You will change your mind,” she answered softly, 
“when you see him.” 

“Well, I should keep him dark,” advised Vesta. 

“No! No!” said Louise with emphasis. “I am 
so proud of him; I want everyone to see him.” 

Vesta made a movement of impatience. “That 
sounds like a little bourgeoisie talking,” she replied, 
“not the great Deloryse.” 

“But I am a little burgeoise,” answered Louise, 
“I am not ashamed of it!” 

“Well, you’re a born dancer, anyway,” conceded 
Vesta. 

“I am a born cook, too!” retorted Louise smiling. 
That I am not a cook is because they pay me more 
for dancing.” 

Vesta raised her hands in mock despair. 

“If you will go in for domesticity,” she said, “I’ll 
lend you my cottage in Sussex. Pack the man down 
there with the little family, and cook for him on 
Sundays.” 

Louise looked at her with disapproval. 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 149 

“Only on Sundays?” she said, “What do you! 
ladies marry for?” 

“To regulate the traffic, I suppose,” answered 
Yesta, laughing as she pulled her opera cloak closely 
round her neck. “Now I mustn’t keep you any 
longer, and don’t forget you’re coming to the last 
committee meeting at my house to-morrow after¬ 
noon to settle the final details.” 

Louise made a gesture of despair. “Impossible. 
Impossible,” she exclaimed. “I am full up to¬ 
morrow, and the next day and every day!” 

Vesta was annoyed at the answer. 

“You see,” she said, in a warning voice, “he is 
beginning to upset things already. I hope,” she 
continued abruptly, “you won’t let him stand in 
the way of your dancing for us to-morrow night, 
will you?” 

Louise gave her a reassuring nod. “You need 
have no fear of that,” she conceded. “I never dis¬ 
appoint for charity.” 

Vesta turned towards the door. “By the way,” 
she added, “I heard you were going to be at Lady 
Dorchester’s to-night.” 

“Leave my man to-night?” answered Louise, “you 
do not know me. Will you make my excuses?” 

“I’d love to,” answered Vesta, who saw an oppor¬ 
tunity not to be missed of scoring a point at Lady 
Dorchester’s expense. 


150 


SURRENDER! 


“You will tell a good lie for me,” said Louise, as 
she held out her hand, “and make my foolish life 
happy.” 

“I’ll say you are saving yourself for my ball to¬ 
morrow night,” answered Vesta. “Lady Dorches- 
ter’ll hate me.” 

“Oh, I would not have that,” exclaimed Louise. 

“But I love to be hated,” answered Vesta, “it 
makes one so important.” 

Louise touched the bell and as she held the door 
open for her, Vesta turning back said earnestly: 

Do take my advice, and don’t exhibit your man. 
I shan’t tell a soul about him myself. Till to¬ 
morrow night, you quaint person,” she added, 
waving her hand, and a moment later the hall door 
closed behind her. 

Louise sighed when she found herself alone once 
more, and looked anxiously at the clock on the 
mantelpiece. In her impatience she forgot that 
David would have concluded that it would be some 
little time before she would be able to get away from 
the theatre, and she was already becoming anxious 
that he might not arrive after all. 


Thoughts of David aroused within her thoughts 
of his son; and stealing softly into his bedroom, she 
found him in his pajamas treading gingerly across 
the floor in his bare feet. He had grown now into a 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 151 

handsome boy with a mass of brown curls and 
large gray eyes. 

“What are you doing up at this time of night,” 
said Louise gathering him in her arms. 

“I heard talking,” explained Davey. “It’s my 
birthday to-morrow,” he added hopefully as Louise 
carried him into the boudoir. “Thank you for all 
your beautiful presents mother! Where are they?” 

“You shall have them to-morrow,” answered 
Louise smiling, and sitting down upon the chaise 
longue she gathered him to her heart and whispered, 
“Davey, I have great news for you.” 

“What?—another birthday present,” answered 
Davey, with increasing interest. 

“Yes,” replied Louise softly, “the best birthday 
present: Your Daddy—he has come back!” 

She had always told Davey that some day his 
father would return, though never believing that he 
would really do so; but Davey had always asked her 
at least once a week since he could talk, whether his 
father was coming that day or the next, and now 
Louise had a curious feeling of keeping faith with 
her boy. 

“Daddy—? Come back?” repeated Davey. 
“Where?” He looked around him as if to find him 
hiding in one of the corners, and disappointed re¬ 
turned his glance towards Louise. “You always 
say ‘he is coming' ” he added, “but he never comes.” 


152 


SURRENDER! 


“Ah! but he comes now,” answered Louise con¬ 
fidently. “He comes at last.” 

Davey comprehended that his mother was labor¬ 
ing under a great excitement, and he clung to her 
impulsively. 

A knock at the outside door caused Louise to 
jump up, her face flushed and her hands trembling. 

“Ah! he has come!” exclaimed Louise. 

Davey clutched at her as he slipped to the floor 
and looking up into her face saw her eyes fixed upon 
the door; he followed her gaze: his little face full of 
wondering curiosity as he peered out from behind 
her skirts. 

There was a breathless silence, then the door 
opened, and Doctor Gavron walked quickly in. 

“Oh, it's only Godfather,” chuckled Davey, 
coming boldly out from his hiding place. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” asked Gavron 
sharply. “Your manager telephoned me to come at 
once. He was afraid you were ill.” 

“Oh,” replied Louise in a light voice, “I am not, 
but he is afraid the box office will be very ill.” 

“You fainted again,” hazarded Gavron, taking 
hold of her firmly by the arm and leading her back 
to the chaise longue. 

“Have you never fainted, heint” retorted Louise, 
imitating him. 

“Never,” said Gavron. 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 


153 


“That is bad,” replied Louise, shaking her head. 
“To you it will happen all at once. You will die 
before I will.” 

“Not if you go on in this mad way,” said Gavron 
sternly. 

“Ah!” replied Louise in an impatient voice, “you 
begin that nonsense all over again. Once a week at 
least—it has become a habit.” 

“You put me in rather an awkward position to¬ 
night,” said Gavron, seating himself. “I wanted Sir 
Richard Hartley to see you.” 

“You wanted?” retorted Louise. “7 did not ask 
it!” 

“Well, I thought it necessary,” replied Gavron, 
“and when we came round, you had gone home. I 
wanted his opinion.” 

Louise tossed her head. “I do not care that for 
his opinion,” she vouchsafed, snapping her fingers. 

“Godfather,” interrupted Davey, who was tired of 
having no attention paid to him. “It’s my birthday 
to-morrow.” 

“Many happy returns,” replied Gavron, patting 
his head; “but that’s no reason why you should be 
up at this time of night.” He turned towards 
Louise. “You’ll never bring that boy up if he 
doesn’t get his proper sleep. We’ll have the birth¬ 
day to-morrow,” he continued turning towards 


154 


SURRENDER! 


Davey again. “Now you run along to bed. I must 
attend to your mother.” 

Louise got up and took Davey by the hand. 

“He’s so excited about his birthday,” she tem¬ 
porized to Gavron. 

“There’s always some excitement going on in this 
house,” said Gavron. 

“Mother,” said Davey as he ran in front of her 
into his room and climbed into bed, “I’m noL going 
to sleep till Daddy comes.” 

“Very well, darling, but you must be very quiet,” 
said Louise as she tucked him up, and kissing him, 
softly closed the door behind her. 

“I love to hear him say 'Daddy’,” she said to 
Gavron as she reseated herself on the chaise longue. 
“It gives me a real English backbone.” 

“What’s he talking about his Daddy for?” asked 
Gavron puzzled. 

“Oh,” exclaimed Louise, “you don’t know: his 
father—he is coming here to-night, at any moment.” 

“You » . .” asked Gavron in amazement. 

Louise paid no attention to him but stood up, her 
arms spread out . . . 

“Think of it,” she exclaimed, “he comes home to¬ 
night, Mon Dieu! It is the end of the world.” 

Gavron took hold of one arm and firmly drew it 
down. 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 155 

“Now, now!” he said in a warning voice. “This 
excitement is not good for you.” 

“It is not excitement,” countered Louise, “it is 
delirium! Ecstasy! ” 

“Yes, yes,” replied Gavron, “but keep cool, keep 
cool!” 

Louise looked at him scornfully and then sat down 
disgusted. 

“You English!” she said; “you would keep cool 
in Hell.” 

Gavron laughed at her gently. 

“We must,” he said in his quiet voice. “We have 
rather a large Colony there.” 

“Do you realize, Gavvy,” said Louise suddenly, 
“that David has never seen his son; and any 
moment the door may fly open and I may be in his 
arms?—” she paused. “If you are here when he 
comes,” she continued excitedly, “not a word, but,” 
she pointed to the door, “outside quick: you must 
shut the door on yourself.” 

Gavron held up his hand. 

“Now, now!” he said, “Let me feel your pulse.” 

“Oh, what a man,” exclaimed Louise. “Can you 
not forget you are a doctor for one moment?” 

“Now, use some commonsense,” pleaded Gavron 
to her as she stood up and looked down at him. 

“Use some sense yourself,” returned Louise; 
“when a woman waits four years and suddenly he 


156 


SURRENDER! 


arrives: it is too much happiness all at once—that!” 

Gavron remained silent, and Louise abruptly sat 
down beside him and held out her wrist. Gavron 
felt her pulse, and Louise in the silence became 
frightened. Seeing that he had alarmed her, Garvon 
smiled reassuringly, though he felt uneasy. 

“Well,” he said, “now let’s have a listen-in at your 
heart,” and bringing a stethoscope from his pocket, 
he placed it against her heart and listened. 

“It is bad, heinf” questioned Louise. 

“No—no,” temporized Gavron. “It is good— con¬ 
sidering.” 

Louise made a gesture of impatience. 

“Keep your bedside manner for the ladies who 
like it,” she answered. “I hate you when you are 
a jelly-fish, I love you when you are a man.” 

Gavron looked away from her. 

“Quite finished?” he said at length. 

Louise nodded. “I think so,” she answered. 

“Well then, I want you to listen to what I have 
to say,” he went on, and Louise nodded in docile 
fashion. “I am serious,” he continued, “you must 
absolutely change your entire mode of living, my 
dear girl.” 

Louise waved her hand. “You talk foolish,” she 
interrupted, “I can’t do that!” 

“Then you won’t live long!” answered Gavron 
brusquely. 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 


157 


Louise startled. 

“What are you saying?” she asked uncertainly. 

Gavron put out his hand. “Now don’t pretend 
to be surprised,” he said, “you know well enough 
when Davey was born and on countless occasions 
since then, I have told you that you had a weak 
heart, and you must go carefully.” 

“Well, I’ve lived long with a weak heart,” retorted 
Louise, “and I will live longer.” 

“I’ve known cases that would have lived longer,” 
answered Gavron significantly, “but for a run up¬ 
stairs. You must go slow . . . very slow. I thought 
with care you might have continued your work at 
the theatre, but what do you do? Charity matinees, 
social functions at night, and all the rest of it.” 

“It was not for my own pleasure,” apologized 
Louise. “It was to amuse people and take their 
minds away from the War. I am useless, I do not 
know how to do anything else!” 

“That’s all over now,” interposed Gavron, “but 
you still go on. Nature has hoisted the danger 
signal and you must stop. All this feverish activity 
must cease; you must live quietly in the country 
and then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t live 
to a good old age. The theatre must go. It will be 
a great sacrifice giving up a career as brilliant as 
yours, but it must be done.” He paused wondering 
how far he was impressing her, and trying to think 


158 


SURRENDER! 


of some argument to persuade her. “And,” he went 
on conclusively, “there is this man of yours to be 
considered, you don’t want to lose him, do you?” 

Louise was impressed at last, her assurance fell 
from her. 

“Lose him?” she questioned in amazement. “Ah, 
no! He is more than all my career!” 

“Very well then,” went on Gavron, feeling he had 
gained a big point. “A quiet country life with 
‘David’ and the boy—what more could you wish?” 

This argument swept the remaining doubts from 
her mind, and like quicksilver her courage mounted 
at the thought. 

“The father will enjoy the boy,” she said, “the 
boy enjoy the father, and I shall love them both 
like,”—she hesitated, “like the devil!” she went on, 
getting up once again in her excitement. 

“That’s the right spirit,” said Gavron rising, “but 
■—try and keep calm!” 

Louise halted suddenly in the middle of the room. 

“I lose my head,” she said suddenly. “I forget all 
about my manager! He will say that I am ruining 
him! Oh, it is terrible—I cannot tell him!” 

“I’ll see him,” answered Gavron decisively. 
“Leave him to me.” 

Louise drew a breath of relief. 

“Perfect,” she answered, “that will save me a 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 159 

scene. Do not be too hard on him, give him a 
month’s notice.” 

“A month!” exclaimed Gavron, “not a day, my 
dear girl! You must never dance again,” he con¬ 
tinued, emphasizing each word with his finger. 

“Never again,” exclaimed Louise, in dismay. “Not 
once? Don’t be an imbecile, Gavvy, I must dance 
to-morrow night at Mrs. Anson-Pond’s for charity. 
It will be my last, there!” 

Gavron paced about the room. 

“It will be your last,” he said hotly, “if you do. I 
positively forbid it.” 

Louise made a movement of resignation. 

“Very well,” she answered desperately. “Don’t 
get excited.” And as Gavron continued to pace 
about, she continued excitedly. “Very well! very 
well! I never saw such a man.” 

“Now, now!” said Gavron standing still. “A little 
control.” 

Louise sat down again. 

“Control—I am controlled,” she exclaimed, “it is 
you: you get so excited. I will go to Mrs. Anson- 
Pond myself and make my own explanation. I 
would not have her think I break my word. I have 
not; this time it is you who have broken it!” 

Gavron gave a sigh of contentment ; she was docile 
at last. 

“Well,” he said, pulling out his watch. “I must 


160 


SURRENDER! 


be going now. Don't worry about anything. I'll 
see your manager to-morrow morning and I'll look 
in to-morrow evening and see you." 

“Au revoir then/' said Louise, holding out her 
hand, “but do not come to see me —come to see a 
man—my man—and" with an illuminating smile; 
“I want him to see my good kind doctor—my very 
great friend." 

“He will be here in the evening?" asked Gavron, 
a note of regret in his voice. 

“Always," said Louise. 

“Lucky man!" replied Gavron, an expression of 
sadness noticeable in his eyes as he took her hand 
and went quickly out without another word. 

The door had no sooner closed behind him than a 
feeling of misgiving came over her that David was 
not going to come after all. It was very late she 
thought, as she looked at the clock, and paced the 
boudoir with impatient steps. 

Gavron had, however, scarcely driven away before 
another car stopped outside the door, from which 
David alighted. 

He had returned to the Club after the theatre 
with the other three men, and making an excuse 
that he had a letter to write, left them and sat alone 
trying to solve the question of how he should 
approach Louise after the intervening years. But 


DELORYSE—THE DANCER 161 

the more he thought it over, the more hopeless did 
any explanation appear to him. 

He glanced about him a moment, in uncertainty 
and mounting the steps, stood looking blankly at the 
door: his hand mechanically sought the knocker, 
only to drop back again at his side. He tried again 
to think of what he should say; and finally in des¬ 
peration he knocked—the door was quickly opened, 
and he went up the stairs like a man in a dream—to 
meet Louise again. 


I 


VII 

FATHER AND SON 

T HE sound of David’s knock on the outer door 
traveled upward to the little boudoir where 
Louise, her mind a prey to gathering doubts and 
wild longings, paced feverishly to and fro. 

On the instant all doubts were banished to give 
place to a fierce desire to rush to the door—but her 
feet refused to move—her strength had deserted 
her; she listened for someone to go and open it . . . 
she heard voices; and then suddenly, the boudoir 
door was opened and David stood before her. 

There was a moment’s silence as they regarded 
oach other; a silence broken only by the labored 
^breathing of Louise; in an instant David knew 
that she had not changed, and that he too had not 
forgotten! 

Louise stared at him as if afraid that the man in 
evening dress who stood before her was some ghost 
of her David conjured up from the abyss of the years 
that had intervened. 

The door closed behind him, and on the snap of 
the catch David started forward. 

“Lolo!” he exclaimed. 

At the sound of his voice, Louise with a glad cry 
162 


163 


FATHER AND SON 

rushed forward, and flung her arms about his neck. 

The tears streamed down her cheeks as her 
emotions so long pent-up gave way, and she clung 
to him desperately as though she was afraid he might 
vanish to leave her once again to her loneliness. 

David, embarrassed by her show of affection and 
her loss of self-control, stood awkwardly patting her 
dark head as it lay upon his chest. 

“David,” murmured Louise through her tears, “is 
it really you?” 

David tried to raise her head in an endeavor to 
calm her. 

“Now, come,” he answered, “there’s nothing to 
cry about.” But Louise refused to be comforted 
all at once. 

“I thought,” she answered, “I should never see 
you again.” And at this thought she clung to him 
the closer. 

“Do be sensible, Lolo,” said David, again trying 
to raise her head. “If you keep your head tucked 
down there under my arm I can’t see what you look 
like. Come, let me look at you.” 

Louise stirred and then her eyes, sparkling with 
tears, devoured his face as she drew away from him. 

“I want to look at you first,” she answered, holding 
him at arm’s length. 

“Well, what have you got to say?” asked David 


164 SURRENDER! 

at length, as Louise gazed at him steadily without 
speaking. 

At his question, Louise endeavored to speak, but 
her emotions prevented her, and making a hopeless 
little gesture with her hands, she put her arms once 
again around David’s neck and kissed him. 

‘That’s all!” she answered softly. 

David, putting her gently away from him sat 
down in an arm-chair by the fireplace, whilst Louise 
following stood beside him. 

“Now tell me,” he said in a matter of fact voice, 
“have I changed?” 

Louise shook her head. “Much,” she answered 
laconically. 

“Older, eh?” questioned David, smoothing his 
brow with his hand. 

“Yes,” answered Louise, a little gravely, “and so 
serious. And me?” she questioned, putting her hand 
on his shoulder. “Have I changed?” 

David looked into her face again, 

“There is a greater change in you, Lolo,” he 
answered “than there is in me, for the little French 
girl has become a woman, a beautiful woman, and a 
great one.” 

Louise, pleased with his reply, settled herself on 
his knees and gave a sigh of contentment. 

“When a little girl is left all alone she must do 
something,” she answered modestly, stroking the 


165 


FATHER AND SON 

back of his head with her hand. “It seems a long 
time, a lifetime since I was waiting in my dressing 
room in Paris for you to call for me, and all that 
comes is a little piece of paper written in pencil, and 
such a scrawl—such writing!” She held up her 
hands in dismay. “After much trouble I make it 
out,” she continued, “then I don’t know what hap¬ 
pened, but everything seemed to stand still, and 
later I realized you had gone and I cried all day 
and all night.” 

“All night?” repeated David. 

“Yes,” said Louise, “and the next day too, I cried 
all day!” 

“Poor little girl,” he said tenderly, “You know,” he 
went on in a firmer voice, “it was a piece of good 
luck my getting that pencilled note to you at all. 
The order had been waiting the whole day and I 
had to get away at once.” 

It was then that Louise asked him the first of the 
questions he was so dreading. 

“Why didn’t you write?” she asked reproachfully. 
“Not a word in five years! At first I was not afraid 
and then afterwards I thought, David, I thought, 
you had been-” 

David interrupted her at this point. And so I 
very nearly was,” he said, and he described to her 
the events of all the months during which he had 
been a prisoner of war and wounded. 


166 


SURRENDER! 


“But afterwards?” she reiterated. “Why didn’t 
you write when you became well: they allowed you 
to write, yes?” 

David nodded in acquiescence. 

“I don’t know,” he answered at length. “I 
thought; well, never mind now, what I thought. 
That’s all done with and past. Don’t let’s think 
about it any more.” 

“But don’t you want to know how lonely I was?” 
asked Louise. 

“Oh yes, of course I do,” answered David quickly. 

“Then I must think about it,” said Louise. “No 
secrets between us, darling, heinf And you will tell 
me everything?” 

David moved uneasily in his chair. “You have 
changed,” he answered smiling. “You never used to 
ask questions.” 

“Ah,” said Louise laughing, “I was timid then; 
but,” she continued, raising her head proudly, “I 
have more confidence in myself now. I have grown 
stronger, David; and my love,” she continued, her 
voice sinking almost to a whisper, “has grown 
stronger too; it is so strong, it is burning me up!” 
So saying Louise threw her arms about him again. 
“And have you nothing more to tell me about your¬ 
self?” she added. 

“Oh yes, lots,” answered David, uneasy once more. 


FATHER AND SON 167 

“But let us talk about you,” he went on, trying to 
change the subject, “and your great success.” 

“Oh, that,” said Louise, in a disappointed voice, 
“that is nothing!” 

“I can’t get over it,” answered David proudly, “it’s 
astounding. When I returned and heard people talk 
of Deloryse and I saw the electric signs and every¬ 
thing, I never thought she was little Louise Boucher 
of the Rue Vauges.” 

“Deloryse,” repeated Louise in a pleased voice. 
“The name was a success from the very first. I have 
been very lucky! ” _ 

“Something more than luck, I’m thinking,” 
answered David, looking at her in admiration, “for 
your name to be famous in such a short time.” 

“Ah, what a fuss you make about it,” said Louise, 
putting her hand over his mouth. “It is nothing!” 

“Nothing,” answered David, pulling her hand 
away. “When I think of you a few years ago, an 
unknown young girl and what you are now—the 
famous Deloryse! It is one of the wonders of the 
world!” 

At that Louise suddenly started up from his knee 
and hit her head with her hand in mock dismay. 

“I lose my head!” she exclaimed, “I can think of 
nothing else but you! And you talk to me of won¬ 
ders, my career! My success! It is nothing! I will 
show you a real wonder!” 


168 SURRENDER! 

She turned away hurriedly towards Davey’s bed¬ 
room door and turning the handle went softly inside 
the room. David watched her as she left him, 
puzzled as to what she meant. 

He studied the open doorway with an increasing 
impatience as Louise did not immediately re-appear; 
then suddenly she stood framed in the doorway, 
holding a little boy by the hand. 

“I have the honor/' said Louise, “to present— 
your 4 son.” 

At these words David started up from his chair 
and stared at little Davey. 

Davey made no move, he felt afraid of this strange 
tall man before him, but Louise pushed him gently 
towards David. 

“Don’t be afraid of him,” she said gently, “he is 
your Daddy!” 

As little Davey moved slowly towards him, David 
became aware of his likeness to himself; he hesitated 
a fraction of a second, and then bending quickly 
down, lifted Davey from the floor, holding him 
closely in his arms as he kissed him repeatedly. 

Louise standing a little apart, watched the two, 
and as she watched, all the love and affection in her 
soul sprang to her eyes: joyful at the union of little 
Davey and his father, she came towards them, and 
David freeing his arm, placed it around her waist 
and drawing her close to him kissed her. 


FATHER AND SON 


169 


After a moment Louise disengaged herself from 
David’s embrace, and he sat down on the chaise 
longue with the boy upon his knee. 

Little Davey, who had gradually been gaining con¬ 
fidence, then spoke at last. 

“Are you my Daddy?” he asked, fixing his gray 
wondering eyes on David’s face; and Louise clapped 
her hands in delight. 

“He is wonderful!” she exclaimed. “All the time 
you were away I have the 'blues;’ everything is 
wrong. I say I will not live any more this rotten 
life; then I come home and Davey is here. I look 
into his eyes, I see his father there, and life is once 
more—beautiful.” 

David, who was trying to gather together his con¬ 
fused thoughts looked once again from Louise to 
Davey. 

“Well, old man,” he said with forced cheerfulness. 
“And what have you got to say to me?” 

“It is my birthday to-morrow,” answered Davey, 
his eyes growing large with expectation. “I hope 
you’ve brought me a present.” 

David became embarrassed for a moment. “Your 
birthday,” he exclaimed. “By Jove, is it?” He 
paused and then continued, “But I haven’t got any 
present with me.” 

Davey’s face fell immediately. 

“But then my trunks aren’t unpacked yet. In 


170 


SURRENDER! 


the morning,” went on David desperately, since 
Davey was still disappointed, "they must take you 
out and buy you what you want most. What is it, 
eh?” 

Davey’s face lightened as if by magic. "I want 
a little tower like the one Mother told me about,” he 
said. 

"The Eiffel Tower, he means,” exclaimed Louise. 

"What do you do with it?” asked David, in¬ 
terested. "Wind it up?” 

"Oh, no,” answered Davey, "you build it up.” 

David looked at him with a searching glance. 

"So building’s fun for you, is it?” he asked. 

"Rather,” replied David. 

"It is perfect,” exclaimed Louise, turning towards 
David. "He inherits the talent from you. Little 
Davey will be a great engineer like his father!” 

"An engineer like his father.” The words of 
Louise came echoing through David’s brain like some 
devil’s chorus—here was his son, and yet he had no 
son—there was his business, and yet there was no 
successor. Abruptly he put the boy down from his 
knee. 

"We mustn’t keep the boy up any longer,” he said 
excusing his action. 

"Do you want him to go . . . at once?” questioned 
Louise, her voice a little hurt, but David did not 
answer as his thoughts wandered back again to those 


FATHER AND SON 


171 


days when Vesta and he had threshed out the ques¬ 
tion of children over the dinner table. Vesta had 
agreed with him when he had returned from the 
War, but then it was too late. Too late! And she, 
Louise, the girl he had forgotten, had given him that 
which he most wanted in life—a son! 

“Mother!” exclaimed Davey, “Can’t I stop up a 
little longer?” 

Louise hesitated and looked at David. 

“Well, darling,” she answered at length. “What 
does your father say?” 

David directly questioned pulled his mind back 
from its bitter thoughts; he must talk to Louise: the 
situation must be faced, and something settled. 

“I’m afraid it’s too late for you, little man,” he 
said, kissing Davey, and Louise disappointed at 
David sending the boy away called “Henriette” a 
little sharply. 

Henriette came bustling in in response to the call, 
and seeing David curtsied. 

“Monsieur” she whispered. 

David went forward and shook hands with her. 
“How do you do, Henriette?” he said. “Davey tells 
me he’d like an Eiffel Tower from the toy shop. 
Will you go with him to-morrow and see that he 
gets what he wants?” So saying, he handed 
Henriette a five pound note. 


172 


SURRENDER! 


“Thank you, monsieur” answered Henrietta 
taking the proffered note. 

“Monsieur” exclaimed Louise indignantly, “it is 
‘sir/ ‘sir/ ‘sir/ you know it well, Henriette; you speak 
English better than I do.” 

“Ah, no, pas du tout” exclaimed Henriette, taking 
little Davey by the hand and leading him from the 
room. David watched the door shut behind the 
couple in silence, but Louise could not understand 
his behavior. 

“Why do you send him away?” she exclaimed, 
when Henriette had returned from the boy’s bed¬ 
room and had left them alone once more. “Don’t 
you like your boy?” 

David started from his reverie. “Of course I do,” 
he asseverated too eagerly. “I love him. He is a 
beautiful boy.” 

“Then why do you look so ... so ... I don’t 
know what to call it?” asked Louise. “I don’t under¬ 
stand that look, David.” 

David, after wandering around the room rest¬ 
lessly, sat down on the arm of the chair by the fire¬ 
place, whilst Louise continuing to stand in the 
centre watched him uneasily. 

“It’s nothing,” said David at length. 

“You are not pleased,” pursued Louise, “with the 
surprise I give you? It was also a surprise to me 
that I would be a mother; it was hard for me not to 


FATHER AND SON 


173 


have you with me the day I knew. I had to comfort 
myself with the little fellow—I made up my mind 
he would be a little fellow and look like you, and I 
determined to make him an Englishman to please 
you. He was born in England, and I christened him 
David. Are you pleased?” 

“It was generous of you to make an Englishman 
of him,” answered David awkwardly. 

“I would have loved to have given him to France,” 
said Louise, “but I thought 'my man’s’ country must 
be my boy’s country, and so it was England that he 
saw when he first opened his eyes. The first words 
he heard were from an English nurse.” Louise 
laughed suddenly. “We were two babies learning our 
A.B.C. together,” she continued. “Say you are 
pleased!” she pleaded again. 

David looked up into her face, and overwhelmed 
by the knowledge of her great love for him and 
conscious of his altogether impossible position, 
hesitated in his reply. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he stammered, “it has 
come on me so suddenly—you—the great Deloryse— 
the boy . . . I . . . you must give me time to 
think.” He moved with agitated steps across the 
room trying to find a way out of the tangle of their 
lives, Louise’s, Vesta’s, his and the boy’s. 

But Louise knowing nothing of the circumstances 
of his life felt suddenly cold, as when a warm fire 


174 


SURRENDER! 


unwatched dwindles to a flickering flame, and a chill 
pervades the room, stealing its warmth away. 

"David,” she cried, in a frightened voice, "don’t 
you want your son?” 

"Want him!” answered David who wanted, and 
had always wanted that, before all things. "My 
God, it has been my one great dream. I have worked 
hard all my life, I have built up a great business in 
all parts of the world; my workmen had their little 
ones, but I had no one to come after me. Whenever 
I passed these crowds of children I envied their 
fathers. They thought I had everything in the 
world worth having; I had, in fact, everything, but 
the one thing I wanted. I was a bitter, disappointed 
man. I never thought the dream of my life would 
be realized.” 

Louise breathed a sigh of relief when she heard 
David’s outburst; he loved the boy and wanted him; 
that was what she had been waiting to hear. 

"Ah,” she exclaimed happily, "it is good to listen 
to you saying that; I’ve said to myself so many 
times, When David comes home he will be so happy 
when he finds that I have given him a boy.’ David, 
I have given you a son and all our worries are over; 
now you can laugh!” Finding him unresponsive, 
she hesitated again. "David, why don’t you laugh?” 
she asked. 

David smiled gently at her enthusiasm and hold- 


FATHER AND SON 175 

ing out his hand caught hers and held it. “Dear 
foolish little Lolo,” he said softly. 

Louise delighted once more at seeing him smile 
let her spirits mount again. 

“I love to see you smile,” she said, holding tightly 
to his hand. “It looks more like the old David 
when you smile; the David of the Paris days.” She 
came forward into his embrace as she said this, and 
David sighed regretfully as he repeated—“Paris 
days: those were dream days.” 

“And now,” said Louise, “the London days, they 
must be dream days, too, David; you like me to be 
English, I know you do; you are English to the 
backbone.” 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” answered David 
evasively. 

“Oh, yes, you do,” said Louise, “and now we are 
in England we will do as the English do: we marry.” 

“Marry?” repeated David, starting away from her 
embrace. 

“You do not want it?” said Louise puzzled at the 
look on his face. “Oh, I know what is at the back 
of your head, you don’t like to be called the husband 
of Deloryse the dancer.” 

David shook his head and started to pace the 
room again. 

“Don’t shake your head,” exclaimed Louise. “I 
know it, but I have thought it all out, you foolish 


176 


SURRENDER! 


one. I give up the stage—that is already settled-^ 
We will be married in a big church—what a crowd 
it will draw to see Louise Deloryse become Mrs. 
David Compton. You will be proud of your little 
good-for-nothing, hein?” 

David made a gesture of hopelessness in answer 
to the question: the situation had gone beyond 
him. Louise was so confident of herself, so sure of 
him; so certain of the future; and he saw nothing 
before his eyes but a blank wall. How was he to 
tell her that there was only that! 

“No,” began Louise again, “you do not like my 
idea? Then what do you want? I thought I knew 
the character of the English,” she continued in a 
tone of regret, “but perhaps I make a mistake. It 
is not so, heinV* 

David came towards her despairingly; he felt he 
must say something definite at last . . . “No,” he 
stammered, “It isn’t that.” 

“Is it,” asked Louise timidly as he came towards 
her, “that you don’t love me any more, is it, David?” 

David took her once again in his arms. 

“Lolo, my little Lolo!” he exclaimed, as he looked 
down at her piteous, appealing face. 

Louise, mistaking the reason of his restraint, and 
rather amused, looked up at him smilingly. 

“Oh, David, David Compton,” she said “you are 
a funny man!” 


FATHER AND SON 


177 


David took one more look into her eyes; the love 
and trust which lay enshrined therein was more then 
he could bear; he drew away from her arms and 
nerving himself said quite slowly- 

“I can’t go on like this, Louise ... I must tell 
you the truth . . . when I met you I had been 
married for some time.” 

Louise flinched as if he had hit her, and then stood 
motionless. Her whole world seemed to assume the 
ghastly colors of some giant kaleidoscope; her 
whole nature was shaken by the knowledge that he 
had deceived her so cruelly. As David turned away 
from her and rested his arm upon the mantelpiece, 
gazing into the empty fireplace, Louise as if in a 
trance and looking into the past began to speak in 
low monotonous tones. 

“It was a man fighting for my country,” she said 
slowly, “who took me in his arms. I did not fight 
against him ... I did not ask for marriage ... I 
did not ask for anything ... I could not . . . Love 
was stronger than myself. When Henriette came 
home, I said to her, ‘Henriette I have taken a 
lover/ and Henriette said ‘Are you happy, my child?’ 
I said ‘I love him/ I loved and she was content. 
With us love is the first and the last thing.” 

“You can’t think worse of me than I do of myself,” 
interrupted David passionately, as he turned to face 
her once more. “It was a rotten thing to do, but it 



178 


SURRENDER! 


was a rotten state of things that was responsible for 
it. I left here and went to France never expecting 
to come back. I said goodbye to everyone and 
everything. Nothing seemed to matter. I’d thrown 
over all my responsibilities, I was a free man I 
thought, when I met you. I was happy in that meet¬ 
ing and owe you moments of forgetfulness from the 
horror of those days that I can never forget. My 
time came and I was called away: I thought to pay 
the price so many paid, I escaped and I meet you 
again. But life stands by me now—not Death. 
Life and its responsibilities. I am not free! The 
Romance of Paris is over!” He threw up his hands 
in despair and moved restlessly away from Louise, 
who whilst he talked had collected her thoughts so 
as to face the inevitable. 

"Is it,” she asked abruptly,—“love that is over?” 

David looked at her tenderly. 

-The Romance of Paris is over,” he repeated 
gently, “but how could I help loving the mother of 
my boy?” 

Louise seized upon this last sentence and hope 
rose once again within her. 

David, she exclaimed, “Love is the great thing. 
You love me. You love your son. We are yours, 
you want him, don’t you?” 

“I want him more than anything else on earth,” 
reiterated David, “I have everything at home but 


179 


FATHER AND SON 

children; my wife didn’t want children, and I find 
the boy here—oh, it is hopeless.” 

“Hopeless,” repeated Louise, “It can’t be hope¬ 
less! In France a man can take his own child.” 

“In England,” answered David with a bitter 
voice, “they don’t allow you to legitimize a child 
born out of wedlock. It is damned unfair to the 
poor little chap, he didn’t ask to come into the world, 
and that makes my responsibility all the greater.” 

Louise, who knew nothing of this, felt her hopes 
being dashed once again. 

“I cannot believe it,” she said, “the English 
are . . but David holding up his hand interrupted 
her. 

“No, they are not,” he said bitterly. “They won’t 
look things straight in the face; it’s snobbery, noth¬ 
ing but moral snobbery, the only way an English¬ 
man can protect a natural child and take him into 
his house is as the son of a poor relation; tell that 
lie and they’ll accept him: tell the truth and they 11 
stone him.” 

Louise listened to his outburst in silence. 

“Then what are you going to do to protect him?” 
she asked at last. “You—a strong man; do you 
mean to say you can do nothing for your own child? 

David hesitated a moment. 

“I have shown you the only means open to us, 
he replied. “In England to make the boy’s position 


180 


SURRENDER! 


absolutely safe the mother would have to give him 
up ... to go away and forget him, and . . 

“Forget my boy?” interrupted Louise wildly. “Are 
you mad? Before he came into the world I thought 
of nothing but him. After he was born I thought 
of nothing but him. I live only for him, I worship 
him! I love you, David, but I would give you up 
for him. I would give up my life for him. And 
you,” she finished contemptuously, “ask me to for¬ 
get him!” 

David tried to interrupt her as her breathless 
voice cried out the words, but seeing that it was 
impossible to stop her he let her finish. 

“Forgive me,” he said at last, “for even mention¬ 
ing such a thing. It's a pitiless outlook, hopeless!” 

Louise on hearing the word “hopeless” again 
grasped his arm roughly. 

“No, no,” she exclaimed. “I will not have it. It 
must not be hopeless.” 

David put his hand over hers. 

“I wouldn’t think of letting you make such a sacri¬ 
fice,” he said. “I couldn’t think of you . . ” 

“No. No!” interrupted Louise. “It is of him we 
must think.” 

Her mind reverted to the Doctor’s warning that 
she might die any day. This impelled her to press 
for some immediate action that would ensure her 


FATHER AND SON 


181 


boy’s future, and almost frantic at the idea of his 
being in danger, she continued—-— 

“Suppose something should happen to me? He 
would be left alone in the world—without a father 
—no name—no position ... no one to protect 
him!” 

“I want to protect him,” said David. 

“Then why don’t you?” asked Louise, and as 
David turned suddenly away from her she realized 
the answer to her own question. “I know. It is I!” 

“No, No,” said David, weakly. 

“I stand in the way,” went on Louise abruptly. 
“Very well, I will go! And are you willing to take 
Davey into your home, and give him your name?” 

“Willing?” answered David, “I would give him 
everything; he would be my son and heir.” 

“And he would be safe from suspicion?” continued 
Louise. “There would be no doubt about him.” 

“If the boy comes into my house,” said David 
firmly, “he could hold up his head with the best of 
them. He could . . . but what’s the use . . .” he 
broke off wearily, “it would only hurt you and I 
won’t . . .” 

“If it will help him,” interrupted Louise, “it will 
not—hurt—me.” She closed her eyes for a moment 
and then summoned up all her courage to make the 
great sacrifice. “David,” she continued slowly, I 
give you the boy.” 


182 SURRENDER! 

David came towards her and took her gently by 
the arm. 

“Little girl,” he said, “it’s very fine of you, but I 
couldn’t bear to think of you—his mother-” 

“His mother!” interrupted Louise, with bitter 
emphasis. “I do not count any more! I am noth¬ 
ing! Another woman will play the part I have 
created—she will take my place!” 

Then it was that David was confronted with the 
second part of the problem; even if Louise was won¬ 
derful enough to give up the boy, Vesta had to be 
woman enough to take him. 

He looked at Louise and then answered slowly. 

“Will another woman play the part, that is the 
question. Will she?” 

“Why not?” challenged Louise, indignant at the 
thought that anyone should refuse to mother Davey. 
“I have much more to forget and forgive than she.” 

“But in such matters,” answered David, “a wife 
will have her own way.” 

There is only one way,” exclaimed Louise 
indignantly, “for all women; the human way. A 
wife must be human too. It is her husband’s child 
and that should make it easy for her.” 

“Easy,” returned David bitterly, “nothing will 
make it easy. Women look at these things in the 
way they have been brought up . . . you can’t 
change it.” 


FATHER AND SON 


183 


“I can’t believe that/’ exclaimed Louise. “Go to 
her, David, and tell her of the boy, your boy, and 
she will love him.” 

David hesitated at the thought of approaching 
Vesta directly on the subject. 

“Since my return,” he temporized, “my affairs 
have kept me very busy. I haven’t had a great 
deal of time to talk to my wife about anything. I 
couldn’t approach her suddenly on such a matter.” 

Louise was up in arms in an instant. “You put 
your affairs,” she said angrily, “before my boy.” 

“Nothing,” said David quickly, “shall come before 
the boy. But the question is, is it advisable? We 
mustn’t rush at things, without thinking.” 

Louise was in no mood to listen to his argument, 
she could only see her boy’s position if suddenly 
something were to happen to her. 

“How can I stop to think at such a moment!” she 
cried. “Anything might happen to me or you. 
David, I cannot wait.” 

“Believe me,” he continued, preparing to go, “I 
am just as anxious as you are. I’ll do my best, little 
woman, don’t worry.” 

Louise followed him downstairs into the hall. 

“Not worry?” she said as he put on his overcoat, 
“you might as v/ell ask me not to breathe.” She 
watched his face as he adjusted his scarf. “David,” 


184 SURRENDER! 

she went on suddenly, “you. think she won’t take 
him.” 

“What’s put that into your head?” asked David 
irresolutely. 

“I feel you have no confidence,” exclaimed Louise. 
“David, my boy must be without reproach,” and 
frantically she continued, “If you don’t think she’ll 
take him—say so! Say so!” 

“I don’t say that,” replied David in a calm voice. 
“You would have understood my difficulties better 
if I had told you before that the lady you are 
dancing for to-morrow night is my wife.” 

“Mrs. Anson-Pond?” exclaimed Louise incred¬ 
ulously, drawing away from him. “Then you are 
not David Compton?” 

“That was not my doing,” David answered in a 
pleading voice. “De Rillac made a mistake in my 
name when he introduced us. I know it was wrong 
not to have told you after, but-” 

Louise, with a wave of the hand, interrupted with 
bitter emphasis—“The name you gave me is of no 
consequence if you give my boy your real name, that 
is the only thing that matters.” 

“There is no ‘if’ about it,” David emphatically 
answered. 

“That’s positively decided.” 

“Then you will go to her?” reiterated Louise. 

“Yes, I will speak to my wife to-morrow,” he said 


FATHER AND SON 185 

in a reassuring voice, taking her hand. “Good-night, 
little girl, and don’t lose heart.” 

As she let go his hand, he turned quickly, opened 
the street door and closing it gently behind him, 
left Louise standing alone in the deserted passage 
of her house. 

How long she stood there, gazing at the closed door 
in front of her, Louise did not know, but the sound 
of Henriette on the staircase startled her out of her 
weary thoughts. 

“Little Davey?” said Louise anxiously, in a ques¬ 
tioning voice, as she hurried to go upstairs. 

“He sleeps; he is all right, madame,” answered 
Henriette in a confident voice, leading Louise into 
the boudoir. Then noticing that Louise was crying, 
she asked in alarm, “What is it, my child?” 

“He is not all right,” whispered Louise, the tears 
welling to her eyes, “he is not.” 

Henriette put her arm'round Louise, who laid her 
tired head upon her shoulder. 

“How—not all right,” asked Henriette as she 
patted Louise gently with her hand. 

“His father,” murmured Louise, “he is married.” 

The hand of Henriette that was patting Louise 
suddenly clenched; and her lips came together 
sharply-■ 

“Salaud!” she exclaimed. 


186 SURRENDER! 

Louise raised her head slowly from Henriette’s 
breast. 

“You must not say that,” she whispered. 
“Henriette, he will do his best.” The words were 
hardly uttered when the confidence they expressed 
left her. 

Louise, who had a moment before made such a 
great sacrifice to David for the sake of her boy 
suddenly became afraid that David himself would 
not succeed in persuading his wife to take him. Her 
fear no sooner became crystallized within her brain 
than it was succeeded by the certain knowledge that 
he would fail. If he failed—what then? Her trust 
in human nature had been rudely shaken and she 
believed in no one! In a flash her mind was made 
up, and she determined to go and see Mrs. Anson- 
Pond herself. Wanting to be alone to think out the 
details of her fateful visit in the morning, Louise 
abruptly said good-night to Henriette and turned 
her tired feet and overwrought body towards her 
bedroom. Henriette put out the lights one by one 
till the little house lay in darkness save only for the 
glimmer from Louise’s room, where the return of 
David so long expected, that was to make everything 
right for ever, had caused the figure of sorrow to 
enter and be seated. 


VIII 


a woman’s pride 

D URING the long hours of the night, Louise in 
the confines of her bedroom began to realize 
for the first time what she had undertaken to do. 
The events of the preceding night had come to pass 
so quickly that she had had no time to think. The 
impulse to do what was best for the boy in the new 
set of circumstances revealed by David had been 
uppermost in her mind, and she had thrown all 
thoughts of her own welfare and future to the four 
winds. 

But in the night she knew the bitterness and 
anguish of a woman who with one sweep of the hand 
had thrown away from herself all that she held most 
dear in life. She realized to the full that her posi¬ 
tion was a hopeless one, and that David’s solution 
of the problem was the only outlet which would give 
little Davey the chance he ought to have and that 
she wished him to have. 

There remained only Vesta Anson-Pond; as often 
as the argument recurred to her “I am giving up so 
much, surely it is not too much to ask of you?” so 
often she felt that it would be too much for David’s 
wife. Of the wrong that David had committed 
187 


188 SURRENDER! 

against her, Louise had almost ceased to think, but 
the wrong he had committed against her son was 
ever present in her mind, and her whole being con¬ 
centrated itself upon battering down the bulwarks 
of Vesta’s opposition, which she was certain would 
be arrayed in force against her. 

She felt convinced that David would fail, and 
then there was only herself to try and right the 
wrong which had been committed. 

David himself returned home thankful for the 
son which Louise had given him, but with the fear 
that Vesta was not capable of showing him the great 
love which his demand would require from her, and 
that her pride would reassert itself and refuse to 
capitulate to this child of his. And if she refused 
to take a hand, what then? David did not know at 
the moment, and he shelved the issue in his mind. 
Time enough to think of that when Vesta refused. 

The morning found him weary with anxious 
thought, and instead of going straight to the office 
after breakfast as was his custom, he waited 
desperately for Vesta’s appearance. 

She came down from her bedroom earlier than 
usual, for many arrangements had yet to be con¬ 
cluded for the Ball that night: the accounts had to 
be more or less made up and several late letters to 
be answered. 

Papers in hand, Vesta entered the morning room, 


A WOMAN’S PRIDE 


189 


preoccupied with her preparations, but as she was 
about to seat herself at her desk, her gaze rested 
upon David. 

“David!” she said in an astonished voice, as she 
sat down and proceeded to sort out the letters. 
“What are you doing here at this time in the morn¬ 
ing? Thank Heaven the Ball is to-night,” she threw 
out over her shoulder, “my head wouldn’t stand 
another day of it. I didn’t expect to see you until 
dinner. Aren’t you feeling well?” 

“Oh, yes,” stammered David awkwardly. “But—» 
er—” 

“What’s happened?” asked Vesta, taking up her 
pen and beginning to write. 

“Well, the fact is,” said David, in a more confident 
voice, “these last few days you’ve been going such a 
pace with this charity affair, I haven’t had a chance 
to have a word with you. I’ve hardly seen you, and 
I want to have a talk.” 

Vesta looked over the correspondence on her desk 
and put down her pen. 

“It’s very sweet of you, David, and I’d love it,” she 
answered getting up from her chair, “but just at 
this time I haven’t a moment,” and to emphasize 
her words she pointed to her desk. 

“I’m sorry,” replied David, remembering his 
promise to Louise to try and do something 
immediately, “but I can’t put it off.” 


SURRENDER! 


190 

Vesta gave him a surprised and searching glance 
before she sat down again; this firmness of David’s 
was something to which she was not accustomed. 

“If you can’t, you can’t,” she said at length in a 
resigned voice. 

David, realizing that now the matter had to be 
faced with his wife, tried to suppress the excitement 
rising within him; an excitement which was coupled 
with a feeling of satisfaction on the one hand and 
embarrassment on the other. He hesitated to find 
an opening. 

“It means a lot to me,” he said at last. 

Vesta leant slightly forward in her chair, remark¬ 
ing his serious air. 

“Then let me hear about it by all means,” she said 
in an encouraging voice. 

David drew a chair up towards her, and sitting so 
as to face her, he clasped and unclasped his hands 
nervously as he began. 

“You know, Vesta,” he said, “it has been a source 
of great unhappiness to me that . . . that we have 
no children . . . that I have no son.” The 
encouraging expression upon Vesta’s face died away 
as if by magic and was replaced by a cold stare. 

She felt aggrieved and angry that after her recent 
self confession to David in Switzerland, he should 
reopen the subject which she did not care ever to dis¬ 
cuss with him again. 


A WOMAN'S PRIDE 191 

“I think,” she replied in a chilled voice, “it is very 
unkind of you to remind me of it now.” 

David's voice softened as he answered her. “I 
didn't mean it unkindly,” he said, “I-” 

“It's such an extraordinary thing for you to bring 
this subject up again,” interrupted Vesta angrily. 
“It won't make matters any better opening the 
wound. You know very well . . .” 

“I'm sorry,” said David gently, “I—I didn't 
mean . . .” But Vesta rose in the middle of his 
sentence and walked away from him with an injured 
air. 

“You reproached me,” she said. 

“I didn't mean it as a reproach,” answered David 
in an eager voice. “I am not blaming you ... I 
simply say we have made a mistake . . . and I want 
to rectify it.” 

Vesta stopped in her walk and turned to face 
him. 

“What’s done is done,” she answered, stamping 
her foot impatiently, “and can't be helped.” 

David rose and came towards her. “It can—it 
can,” he reiterated. 

“No,” answered Vesta in a softer voice, “as I told 
you before, David, it is too late for that now. 

There was a slight pause and then David uttering 
the words slowly, replied- 

“Vesta, I want to adopt a little boy.” 


192 SURRENDER! 

Vesta’s eyes widened in astonishment. 

“You can’t mean that seriously?” she said. 

“Yes, I do,” answered David. “I mean to adopt 
a little boy.” 

Vesta who at first had not believed that he meant 
what he said, looked at him steadily for a moment 
and seeing that he was in earnest answered him 
firmly. 

“No,” she said, “It would only remind me of what 
I was trying to forget. Besides, I couldn’t go about 
with another woman’s child.” She put out her 
hands as if to push away something repulsive. “I 
should feel as if I were swanking in borrowed 
plumes,” she added. 

“You talk as if I were asking you to take another 
woman’s cast off dress,” replied David, his voice a 
little impatient. 

“Do I?” answered Vesta. “Well, it’s just as bad, 
it would be a cast off child.” 

“Oh, no, not this one,” said David, his voice eager 
once again. “He’s such a dear little fellow.” 

“How do I know where it comes from?” asked 
Vesta quickly. 

“/ know,” pleaded David. 

“Well, suppose you do,” retorted Vesta, “you don’t 
know what he’ll be like when he grows up.” 

David who thought that Vesta’s opposition was 
weakening came towards her across the room. 


A WOMAN'S PRIDE 


193 


“Yes—yes, I do," he answered: “He'll be just 
what you make him. I can’t bring this little fellow 
up without you. I must have your help." 

Vesta, whom David's last argument had touched, 
sat down once again, feeling herself driven into a 
corner. 

“David," she remonstrated with him gently, “It's 
all so sudden, this wild idea of yours." 

“No, no, it isn't really," said David, resuming his 
chair near to her. “I've been thinking about it for 
some time." 

“But why haven't you mentioned it since you 
came back?" asked Vesta puzzled at David's per¬ 
sistence, and wanting to persuade him to drop the 
subject without offending him in the process. 

“What chance have I had to talk to you about 
anything," he apologized, “that really matters. 
What with the office, and your blessed ball . . ." 

“Matters more to me," answered Vesta laughing, 
“than this blessed boy suddenly dropped from the 
skies. No, David," she continued in a decisive voice, 
“I won't take the risk." 

“Risk?" repeated David. “How you do exagger¬ 
ate." 

“And how you do underrate," exclaimed Vesta. 
“It is a risk; he might develop criminal tendencies." 

“Now you are talking nonsense," answered David 


194 SURRENDER! 

angrily, as he saw that Vesta's opinion had really 
remained unshaken. 

“I am talking science/' she replied calmly. “You 
know the laws of heredity as well as I do." 

“I accept the theory of heredity," answered David 
quickly, thinking of Louise and himself. 

“Then that disposes of the matter," replied Vesta, 
feeling that David could not now continue the argu¬ 
ment any further, and taking up her pen she began 
to write once again. 

“One moment," interrupted David sternly, getting 
up from his chair. 

“Really, David," answered Vesta in an impatient 
Voice, I have all sorts of things to do this morning." 

“They must wait," answered David, and Vesta 
looked up at him inquiringly as he hesitated to con¬ 
tinue. 

I • • • can put your mind at rest as to the 
parentage of the boy," he continued at last. 

But, my dear," protested Vesta, thoroughly 
exasperated now. “I am not in the least bit 
interested in the boy." 

“But you will be," answered David in heated 
tones, “when I tell you—he is my own son." 

Vesta rose steadily from her chair and moving 
away from the writing table stood rigid, as the 
meaning of his words gradually penetrated her 
mind. There was a tense moment of absolute 


A WOMAN’S PRIDE 195 

silence, whilst the slow horror of this confession 
made itself apparent in Vesta’s eyes as she looked 
across the room at David. 

“Your son!” she asked in an incredulous voice. 

“Yes,” answered David, “my son!” 

Vesta’s hands clenched as she made a supreme 
effort to keep calm; and David watching her for a 
moment at length broke in upon her suffering. 

“Vesta,” he said earnestly, “I know this must be 
an awful shock to you.” The sound of his voice 
snapped the last of Vesta’s self-control. 

“How could you?” she cried, her voice wild with 
the mingled pain of intense anger and outraged 
pride. “How could you?” 

“Vesta,” pleaded David, “Do not condemn me out 
of hand. If you’ll wait before you . . .” 

“Wait!” reiterated Vesta angrily, “I waited four 
years, dreading the loss of my husband—such a thing 
as this never entered into my mind. I didn’t think 
you held me so cheaply.” 

David sighed to himself as he saw the havoc his 
confession had created. 

“It’s just as I thought,” he answered in a weary 
voice. “I should never have told you if it hadn’t 
been . . 

“If it were not to suit your own purpose,” inters 
rupted Vesta, her voice growing cold and scornful as 
her self-possession returned to her; “you would have 


196 


SURRENDER! 


lived your lie with an easy conscience. In a thing 
like this,” she shrugged her shoulders, “I suppose 
one lie more or less makes no difference to a man.” 

“No,” answered David, “not when it can save a 
woman from suffering.” 

“And did you think of my suffering?” asked Vesta 
bitterly, “when you put another woman in my 
place?” 

“I didn’t think of anything,” acknowledged David, 
“I forgot everything but the filthy war, and God 
knows I needed to forget.” 

“And what of my needs?” retorted Vesta quickly. 

I am human! And God knows I needed to forget; 
but I thought of you—and you come home and 
plead forgetfulness to me!” She turned away from 
him and the bitterness of her rage caused an angry 
tear to start to her eye: David watched her, anxious 
to find some conciliatory phase in her attitude 
towards him. 

“In the circumstances,” he pleaded again, after a 
moment’s pause, “you . . . you will forgive me, 
Vesta?” 

“Forgive?” reiterated Vesta in a despairing voice, 
“How can you ask me?” 

“The affair is over,” interrupted David hurriedly. 
“It is all done with, I give you my word it will 
never be renewed.” 

“How do I know it’s over?” challenged Vesta; 


A WOMAN’S PRIDE 197 

“and the boy’s mother, what of her? You’ve told 
me nothing of her.” 

David who was determined at all costs to keep the 
name of Louise out of the conversation answered 
Yesta almost before the words were out of her 
mouth. 

“There is no question of her,” he said, “it’s all so 
long ago. Four years! Why think of her?” But 
Yesta was certain that something must suddenly 
have galvanized David into life if this affair was so 
old as that, and mercilessly she pursued her line of 
thought. 

“When did you see her last?” she asked, giving 
him a sharp glance. 

“When?” repeated David, hesitating for a 
moment whether to tell her or not. 

“Yes, when?” asked Yesta in a firm tone. 

“I saw her yesterday,” conceded David abruptly, 
thinking it no use trying to evade the issue. 

“Ah,” answered Yesta, as if her worst suspicious 
were confirmed. “As I thought, she is in 
London . . .” 

“I had no idea she had left France,” interposed 
David, angry at her suspicions, and then realising 
he must remain calm if any headway were to be made 
at all, he pleaded once again with her. “There is 
nothing to be gained by going over all this,” he ex¬ 
claimed, “an affair of over four years ago!” 


198 SURRENDER! 

“Then why?” questioned Vesta in relentless 
fashion, “did you see her again?” 

“About the boy,” explained David simply, “Noth- 
ing else matters to me or . . . to her. You believe 
me, don’t you?” His answer spoken in such simple 
words shook the beliefs of Vesta against her will. 
If that were so, Vesta argued to herself, David was 
right. It was of no avail to go into the whole matter 
again. Better let it he to be forgotten, if forgotten 
it could be, than to turn the past over again and 
again. She hesitated, however, before giving way 
to her convictions, and David looking her in the 
face repeated- 

“You believe me, don’t you?” 

“I must take your word for it,” answered Vesta at 
length. David gave a sigh of relief, feeling they had 
advanced some way towards the goal at which he 
was aiming. 

“The only thing that remains for us to settle,” he 
continued, “is the boy’s future.” 

But here Vesta felt the time had come when 
concessions must cease: she had been generous in 
giving way so much; if she hadn’t cared for David, 
things might have gone hardly with him. But the 
boy; that was not her responsibility, and she felt 
incensed that David should not let the matter rest 
at her forgiveness. 


A WOMAN'S PRIDE 199 

“That is for you to settle/' she answered. “I’ve 
nothing to do with him.” 

“You know I am in your hands/’ retorted David 
bitterly, “and you take advantage of your position 
to shut my child out of your life.” 

Vesta’s temper arose at this attempt on David’s 
part to place her in the wrong. 

“I will not have the boy in the house,” she said 
hotly, and David hearing this final refusal and 
realizing that he had lost replied as hotly- 

“It’s my house, and I am going to have him here.” 

“Then you want me to go?” hazarded Vesta. 

“Go?” answered David in an incredulous voice. 
“Go where?” 

“I don’t know,” replied Vesta despairingly. “Any¬ 
where away from here.” 

The thought that David should think for one 
moment of preferring this illegitimate child of his 
to her, his lawful wife, rankled in her breast: but 
David saw now clearly the issue he had raised. He 
had gone too far to go back; Vesta must come round 
to his way of thinking or Vesta must go; and if 
Vesta refused to go; then he must go. His was 
the responsibility, and he owed it to the boy and to 
Louise that he should shoulder it. 

“You—you are hard,” he replied, pleading for the 
last time in a trembling voice. “We have jogged 
along so well together all these years. A separate 


200 SURRENDER! 

life would mean—Vesta—you could not endure it. 
You think you could. I know you couldn’t. We 
should be two lost souls apart.” 

Vesta startled at this display of sentiment as 
under a lash. 

“Don’t/’ she interrupted con temp tuously, “I can 
stand anything but sentiment from you. The less 
you say the better for everyone.” 

David made a movement of exasperation. 

“I can’t leave it like this/’ he said, “It isn’t a 
matter that can be dismissed with a wave of your 
Jhand. You may have the greatest contempt for 
what I’m going to say, but I’m going to say it just 
the same.” 

“I refuse,” answered Vesta coldly, “to listen to 
your excuses.” 

“A woman,” retorted David in a bitter voice, 
thinks only of a man’s misdeeds and her own good 
ones; but years of faithful service cannot be over¬ 
looked; it entitles me to be heard. If you refuse to 
recognize that claim, there is nothing left for either 
of us.” He broke off abruptly, and pausing, gave her 
an anxious look to see whether she would refuse to 
hear altogether. Finding Vesta made no movement 
and that he had gained a hearing, he continued less 
bitterly. 

1 This wasn’t an ordinary affair; it was a moment 
of madness. I hadn’t the slightest idea it would 


A WOMAN’S PRIDE 201 

have such a serious ending. I might have ignored 
it as some men do; not that I am taking any moral 
credit for that. But I simply don’t want to ignore 
it. It has made me very happy.” He paused and 
seeing Vesta still made no sign he continued— 
“Whichever way you look at it, the little fellow is 
an innocent third party; why should he be 
penalized?” 

“Am not I an innocent third party too?” asked 
Vesta, rousing herself. “Why should he be con¬ 
sidered before me?” 

“I am trying to show you every consideration in 
consulting you,” answered David. “And are you 
an innocent third party?” He paused and Vesta 
stirred uneasily under the implied reference to her 
refusal to bear children. “It isn t right, continued 
David after a moment, “that you should let a 
personal feeling get the better of a natural feeling 
for a helpless child. / am on trial not the boy. 
The fault was mine. I acknowledge it, frankly. 
Won’t you think of it in that light?” 

“Oh,” said Vesta with more warmth of understand¬ 
ing than she had shown hitherto, “I wish I could, 
but I can’t. I can only think of . . .” 

“One moment,” interrupted David, “you pride 
yourself on being a liberal-minded modern woman, 
and I ask you to take the modern view which does 
not attach vital importance to the physical side of 


202 


SURRENDER! 


marriage. There’s so much more in it than that; 
after all,” and his voice softened, “it’s only a crumb 
from your table.” 

“You forget, don’t you?” replied Vesta, her voice 
grown hard once more, “that we both sit at the 
same table.” 

“Yes,” conceded David bitterly, “staring at an 
empty chair.” 

There was a moment’s pause and Vesta moved in 
restless fashion towards the window, where she stood 
staring out on to the street below with unseeing 
eyes. 

“Tell me,” she said, after a moment’s pause, turn¬ 
ing so as to face David, “If the positions were 
reversed and I were in your place, would you forgive 
me?” 

David remained silent, taken aback by her ques¬ 
tion. 

“You dare not answer that question,” continued 
Vesta, moving forward once again into the room. 

‘ You ask me to be modern! And you remain an 
old-fashioned bigot! What is right for the one is 
surely right for the other. We stand on equal 
ground.” 

“Yes,” conceded David, recovering himself, “but 
you must think of the consequences, and in the 
consequences we are not equal. Nature places us as 
far apart as the twoi poles. God has given to 


A WOMAN’S PRIDE 203 

woman, to you, the greater responsibility—the higher 
one—Creation!” 

“Ah,” answered Vesta, “the same old argument.” 

“As old as Adam,” retorted David, “God made us 
that way; He knows why.” 

“I won’t listen to that,” replied Vesta sharply. 

“Women never will,” said David in an angry voice, 
“but nothing in the world will change it.” 

“Nor my opinion of what you’ve done,” added 
Vesta. 

“I’m not trying to make out a clean case for 
myself,” said David emphatically, annoyed that the 
argument was proceeding now in a circle so that they 
had almost arrived at the point where they had 
started. “I’m only trying to show you the nature 
of things.” 

“Oh,” said Vesta, “you’re giving me a lesson in 
life, are you?” 

“You’ll never know life till you’ve created it,” 
answered David brutally. 

Vesta sank down into the chair of her writing 
table; the savage coldness melted from her face, and 
her body shook with suppressed sobs. 

“You’ve opened the wound once more,” she said at 
length, “and now you’re rubbing salt into it.” 

“I’m sorry,” answered David, recovering his 
temper, “I didn’t ...” the entry of the butler 
interrupted him and he wheeled around sharply. 


204 


SURRENDER! 


“Can’t I have five minutes’ peace?” he asked. 

“I beg pardon, sir,” said Mason, “it’s a telephone 
message from the office.” 

“Well,” answered David impatiently, “Why didn’t 
you take the message?” 

“They said it was urgent, sir,” said Mason in 
apologetic tones, “and they asked for you person¬ 
ally.” 

Vesta, who had taken up her pen on Mason’s 
entrance, had been pretending to write whilst trying 
hard to regain her composure. 

“Don’t let me keep you,” she vouchsafed, in an 
affected voice as David looked at her, undecided 
what to do. 

“Well, perhaps it’s just as well that you should 
have a little time to think things over,” he answered, 
imitating her casual tone. 

“I can’t think now,” replied Vesta wearily. 
“People are waiting for me.” 

“I’m coming, Mason,” said David. 

“Oh, Mason,” injected Vesta as he was about 
to leave the room. “I am not at home to anyone 
this morning.” 

“Very well, Madame,” replied Mason. 

David paused on his way out and turning to Vesta 
he said in an authoritative voice, which put an end 
to any further discussion on her part—“I must have 


A WOMAN’S PRIDE 205 

your decision to-day!” With that he went out and 
Mason following him closed the door. 

Vesta, however, could not collect her thoughts; 
vaguely she turned over the correspondence on the 
table and dipped her pen into the ink preparatory 
to writing, and vaguely she put the pen down again. 
She was conscious that a crisis had come in her life, 
and in David’s; but she did not yet fully realize 
to what lengths David might be prepared to go. She 
felt she had the whip hand, but she was afraid to 
bring down the whip. She knew she loved him, but 
her love was of a different calibre to that of Louise. 
She was no soft yielding creature, but a proud and 
merciless woman; and sacrifice was a word she did 
not include in her vocabulary. It was not David’s 
conduct which appalled her innermost thoughts; in 
fact she almost exonerated him; it was the woman 
who was to blame. It was her child, not David’s; 
the whole mean, beastly business was her doing. The 
little French rat! Hers was the responsibility, not 
David’s! Let him provide for the child; surely that 
was what was generally done; and she thought she 
could forget; she was nearly sure she could forget. 
She would forget! So far would she go in her love 
for David; and was not that farther than most 
women would go? David was not really serious 
about bringing the child into their home—he hadn’t 
thought the whole thing out—it was a generous 


206 


SURRENDER! 


impulse. Kind David! He would have made a 
great father . . . was he not a father? 

The entrance of Mason interrupted her thoughts. 

“Well,” said Vesta sharply, “what is it?” 

“Beg pardon, ma'am,” answered Mason, thinking 
to himself that the whole place was very bad- 
tempered that morning. 

“Well, Mason, what is it?” reiterated Vesta, pick¬ 
ing up her pen again. 

“Madame Louise Deloryse has called,” said 
Mason.. 

Vesta put down the pen again and started up 
from her chair. 

“You didn't send her away, I hope?” she ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Oh no, ma'am,” answered Mason. “She's 
waiting.” 

“Show Madame Deloryse up here at once,” 
ordered Vesta, and crossing quickly to the mirror 
she rearranged her hair; that done, she took out her 
handkerchief, and carefully wiped away any trace 
of her recent tears. 

Returning again to her desk, she pretended to be 
busy at work when Mason threw open the door and 
announced-— 

“Madame Deloryse.” 


IX 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 

T IMIDLY Louise entered the room and faced 
David’s wife. Anxiously she searched Vesta s 
face for any sign of the result of David’s confession, 
but so complete an armor of reserve had Vesta 
that she betrayed no outward signs of her conflict. 
“He has not spoken,” thought Louise. 

“My dear Deloryse,” exclaimed Vesta, advancing 
effusively towards her. “What must you think of 
my keeping you waiting?” 

“Do not speak of it,” said Louise, trying hard to 
smile and casting a glance towards Vesta’s desk. I 
know you must be busy.” 

“It was a stupid mistake of my butler,” apologized 
Vesta, “who misunderstood my order; the fact is,” 
explained Vesta, hesitating for a moment to admit 
anything. “I was rather upset this morning, and I 
told the man I wouldn’t be at home to anyone. But 
fancy his hesitating about you.” 

“I’m sorry you are upset,” Louise said, realizing 
that David had spoken after all. “I hope it is not 
anything serious,” she continued in an attempt to 
find out whether he had succeeded or failed. “Is 

anything wrong about the Ball to-night? 

207 


208 


SURRENDER! 


“No, no,” answered Vesta quickly, “nothing so 
serious as the Ball, only an unexpected morning 
visit from a husband.” 

Louise, fearing that David was still in the house, 
and not wishing him to know she was there, started 
forward. 

“Your husband?” she questioned. “He has not 
gone? He is here?” 

“Don’t let that disturb you the least little bit,” 
answered Vesta, “and do sit down.” 

Louise sat down on the sofa and affected to be 
much concerned at her intrusion. 

“But I am indiscreet,” she murmured, “I have 
interrupted a family conference.” 

Vesta reassured her that she had not. “Indeed,” 
she explained, “it was all over when you came— 
and it was only a stupid little family argument.” 

“Ah,” answered Louise gently, “we must give 
the men their own way, even when they are stupid.” 

“Every woman,” declared Vesta, “will give way 
to the man who doesn’t belong to her. No, my dear 
Deloryse, it doesn’t do! I can’t always give in to 
him.” 

Louise knew by Vesta’s answer that what she 
had feared had come to pass: she had refused; and 
there only remained herself to fight the child’s 
battles. 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 209 

“I am sorry you have had a disagreement,” Louise 
answered at length. 

“Men are so trying when they take themselves 
seriously,” said Vesta sadly, “and to-day of all days, 
it nearly finished me!” 

Louise became sympathetic immediately, seeing, 
even in her troubles, the trouble of Vesta. 

“Ah, madame,” she exclaimed, “it is too bad; I 
cannot tell you how I feel. I am very sorry, very 
sorry.” 

But Vesta did not desire sympathy, and she felt 
that even now she had told Louise more about her 
business than she had meant to do. 

“You kind, sympathetic soul,” she answered, “But 
you are not here to listen to my—I won’t call it 
trouble—it is not so important as that . . .” 

Louise entirely nonplussed by Vesta’s attitude, 
interrupted her— 

“No? Not important?” She hesitated. “When 
a man is serious it must be important. You say it 
is not important to you?” 

“No, no indeed,” denied Vesta, emphatically, an¬ 
noyed at the persistence of Louise. 

“I am confused,” answered Louise, “I do not 
understand.” 

Feeling that Deloryse was a very inquisitive 
person, Vesta changed the subject deliberately. 

“Dear Deloryse,” she said effusively, "it was sweet 


210 


SURRENDER! 


of you to come to my committee meeting after all. 
Your refusal last night was a prelude to this dreadful 
day.” 

“Ah,” answered Deloryse contritely, “it was 
wicked of me to add to your troubles. I said ‘No, 
no, no/ to everybody last night, but later I could not 
help thinking of you.” Louise hesitated a moment, 
and then continued. ‘I must go to Mrs. Anson- 
Pond! I must go! I must go!’ kept ringing in my 
head. I could not keep away!” 

Vesta, who imagined that it was Louise’s enthu¬ 
siasm for the ball that had persuaded her to come, 
was very gratified and saw in her interest a sure 
sign of success that night; a success that would add 
to her reputation and would serve in some slight 
measure to compensate her for all her anxiety. 

“Ah,” she said, smiling at Louise, “you’ve caught 
the excitement of the ball; it’s in the air. We don’t 
get a new dance from Deloryse every day.” 

Louise who was anxious to keep the conversation 
away from the dance and to lead it to the subject of 
her child, waved her hand to dismiss the compli¬ 
ment. 

“I come to you at this time,” she answered in an 
earnest voice, “because I hoped to find you alone, 
so that I could talk a little with you before the Com¬ 
mittee arrived.” 

“I know,” replied Vesta, still thinking the subject 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 211 

of Louise’s visit must be the ball, “you’re worried 
about the arrangements for your dance. Put your 
mind at rest; you shall have the lighting just as you 
planned it.” 

Louise, feeling that any chance she had of per¬ 
suading Vesta to take little Davey would be ruined 
at the outset by any mention of Gavron’s orders 
that she was to dance no more, contented herself for 
the moment by allowing Vesta to think that she 
would be dancing for her that night and replied 
enthusiastically— 

“It is well. I have given much thought to my 
dance; I should not like it spoilt. 

“It will be a triumph for you,” answered Vesta 
pmiling , “you will have the best people in London 
at your feet to-night, and Royalty is coming to see 
you dance. Doesn’t that give you a thrill?” 

“No, madame,” she answered, “I can think of only 
one thing, and it is sad.” ( 

Vesta started at Louise’s serious air. “Oh, don t 
say that!” she exclaimed. 

“I am unhappy,” answered Louise. 

“You? Unhappy?” said Vesta, remembering the 
joy of Louise the night before. “Why, you have 
everything in the world a woman could wish for. 

“I thought I had,” replied Louise in a dull voice. 
“Life was beautiful, I never thought it could be so 
ugly. I cannot boar it! 


212 


SURRENDER! 

Vesta, who was anxious lest this sorrow of Louise 
should affect her dancing that night, endeavored to 
console her. 

“This won't do at all,” she exclaimed; “this is not 
like Deloryse; the light-hearted Deloryse who 
always laughs at trouble.” 

“Ah, that is finished. I laugh no longer”; 
answered Louise. “This sorrow, it is too much for 
me.” 

Vesta, who imagined that Louise had quarrelled 
with the man of whom she had spoken on the 
previous night and did not believe the trouble was 
anything serious, felt constrained to say something 
to cheer her up. 

“You poor thing,” she commenced gently, “tell 
me what it is! Don't think I am prying into your 
affairs,—perhaps I can help you. I want to if I 
can. She paused a moment and then continued in 
light-hearted fashion. “Believe me, there is no use 
hugging trouble. Telling someone is such a relief; it 
helps to throw it off.” 

Louise, who had now obtained from Vesta the 
opening which she wanted, answered eagerly. 

“Yes, yes, madame, and that is why I come to 
you. I know you are kind and I thought . . ” 

“Why, of course,” interrupted Vesta quickly, who 
realized that whatever troubles Louise had she 
would have to listen to them and be sympathetic, 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 213 

“I shall be only too glad, anything that I can pos¬ 
sibly do.” 

“Madame,” interrupted Louise, in an earnest 
voice, “it is only you who can help me.” 

Vesta was taken aback at this reply. “I!” she 
exclaimed in a surprised voice. “Tell me what I 
can do?” 

Louise felt that enough time had been wasted, 
and determined to take the bull by the horns. 

“Take your husband’s boy into your house,” she 
said pleadingly, leaning a little forward towards 
Vesta, so as to watch her. Vesta’s easy smile be¬ 
came chiselled upon her face, and her body stiffened 
as she answered coldly. 

“What do you know of my husband’s boy?” 

“I am his mother,” answered Louise gently, rising 
from the couch and coming towards Vesta who re¬ 
mained seated, speechless for the moment at the 
shock of the disclosure. 

“You?” answered Vesta at last, her voice filled 
with contempt and loathing. “ You are the woman?” 

Louise, stung by her tone, flung her head up 
proudly. 

“Yes,” she said simply. 

Vesta rose from her chair, her hands trembling 
with anger. 

“And you have the face to come here and make 
such a shameful confession?” she said. 


214 


SURRENDER! 


“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” retorted 
Louise. 

Vesta, who saw in Louise nothing but the worst 
and had placed her immediately on her confession 
with the women of that class, walked past her 
towards the mantelpiece. 

“A woman of your kind,” she said over her 
shoulder, ‘‘doesn’t know what shame is.” 

Louise realizing that at all costs the personal 
element must be kept out of the struggle in so far 
as it could be, and the interests of the child put 
forward, returned a soft answer to Vesta’s insulting 
words. 

“Madame,” she pleaded, “do not let us quarrel! 
I did not come here for that, but to entreat 
you . . ” 

At the mention of the word “entreat,” Vesta put 
her hand out towards the bell. 

“Please,” said Louise quickly, “do not ring! I 
beg you humbly, to listen to me.” 

“I have listened to my husband,” retorted Vesta, 
turning for a moment to face her. 

“Your husband can answer for himself,” Louise 
replied earnestly, “but not for me.” 

Vesta’s hand dropped down to her side again as 
the earnestness of Louise’s appeal challenged her 
sense of fairness. 

“I know!” she answered bitterly to discount her 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 215 

concession in not having Louise shown out there and 
then; “the same old story of betrayed innocence—« 
the old motives! The old lies!” 

“Madame, please,” entreated Louise, satisfied to 
have gained a hearing so far. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” said Vesta, changing 
her mind again. “You can’t say anything that will 
alter my opinion of a common affair with a . . .” 
Vesta hesitated as she looked at Louise to degrade 
her with the name she had in her mind, for she 
felt in spite of her anger that Louise was not of 
that class. 

“Finish, madame,” said Louise, with difficulty re¬ 
straining herself and speaking with cynical 
emphasis. “You English will never say what is in 
your minds, but the insult is there just the same. 
I am trying to control myself, but I will not stand 
insults. I cannot; the hot blood of my race will not 
permit me. I come here to beg of you, it is difficult, 
her voice breaking. “It is very, very hard for me.” 

Vesta, who felt she had gone further in her anger 
than she had meant to do came back and sat down 
by the writing table. 

“You’ve made it hard for yourself,” she observed, 
“but say what you’ve got to say.” 

“I would talk politely,” answered Louise in soft 
protesting accents, “but when you are unfair, 


216 SURRENDER! 

Madame, I ask you, please do not, for I am afraid 
of myself.” 

“You’ve no right to expect anything from me,” 
answered Vest a, anxious to justify herself again. 
“You’ve no right here at all.” 

“That is true,” said Louise simply, and for a 
moment disarming Vesta who had not expected the 
frank avowal; “but” continued Louise, “why should 
I come? Ask yourself that question, Madame! If 
I were what you think I am, I should not be here; 
I should be anywhere but here.” She paused a 
moment and went on. “I know my London now. 
I know my English people, and I said to myself, 
‘She will refuse her husband’.” 

Vesta made a movement of exasperation; they 
were in league against her, this dancer and David. 

“So,” she exclaimed, “you arranged it all between 
you. If he failed, then . . .” 

“I swear to you,” Louise interrupted quickly, “he 
does not know I am here! Madame, you are a 
clever woman; you know an Englishman would not 

permit his-” Louise hesitated for a moment to 

continue; she had always regarded herself in her 
dreams and imagination as David’s wife, but here 
was his wife before her; and so with a slight shrug 
of the shoulders, and concealing the bitterness of 
her inward thoughts, she went on, “his mistress to 



WOMAN TO WOMAN 217 

visit his wife. As for me, I have everything to lose 
by coming to you.” 

“You are too eager to lose what you call every¬ 
thing,” commented Vesta, who did not believe in 
Louise’s attitude of self-denial, “I’m not perhaps as 
clever as you are, but I am clever enough to see 
through your shallow self-sacrifice. It doesn’t suit 
the game of Deloryse, the dancer, to have a great 
big boy tacked on to her; she would lose the charm 
that draws the crowd of lovers to her.” 

Louise realized that to show she was insulted by 
losing her temper would be to lose at the outset all 
for which she was striving, and accordingly she 
answered gently, -“Madame, the artiste is dead; 
only the Mother lives, with one hope—to make right 
what is on her conscience before,” she added sig¬ 
nificantly as she felt the rapid beating of her heart, 
“it is too late.” 

“Conscience!” mocked Vesta. “If you had any 
conscience at all you wouldn’t be here; if you had 
any decency,” she continued bitterly, “you would 
hide yourself from me, and take up your responsi¬ 
bilities in another place.” 

“I have taken up my responsibilities,” retorted 
Louise, raising her voice slightly, “I come to you 
to give you the chance to take up yours . . .” 

“Mine?” said Vesta in an incredulous voice. 

“The boy is your husband’s child,” continued 


.218 SURRENDER! 

Louise, paying no attention to Vesta’s interruption. 
“After me, are not you his natural mother?” 

“Ah,” said Vesta, seeing what Louise was really 
driving at, “so that’s it; you are trying to drag me 
in!” She rose from her seat and turned her back 
on Louise. “I’ll have nothing to do with your affair, 
it disgusts me; it’s too ugly.” 

“But,” pleaded Louise eagerly, stretching out her 
hands towards Vesta, who remained turned away 
from her, “it might be beautiful.” 

“That?” questioned Vesta turning to face her. 
“Beautiful?” 

“You are making it ugly,” said Louise quickly. 
“The ugly thing is in your own house; you may 
push it away from your sight, but it will stare at 
you from the dark corners. You hide away the 
truth.” 

Vesta realizing that that was so, wished from the 
bottom of her heart that David had kept the whole 
thing from her, she would have been much happier 
in ignorance. 

“A wife should share the husband’s responsibili¬ 
ties,” continued Louise. 

“Share?” asked Vesta in a sarcastic voice, “with 
Deloryse the dancer?” 

“You think of me as Deloryse all the time,” com¬ 
mented Louise sadly, “but I do not count-—I De¬ 
loryse am a stranger to your husband. Five years 


219 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 

ago I was nobody—a foolish girl—a man made 
love to the foolish girl”; she paused a moment and 
spread out her arms pathetically. “You know what 
came . . . after,” she continued gently. “I did not 
cry; I did not make a fuss; to be a mother was a 
joy; it was greater than romance to me. You have 
not been a mother, and you do not know the feeling. 
I cannot tell you, there is no word to describe it. I 
lived for the little one before he was born; think of 
that, Madame, and you will know what it means 
for me to give him up after I have had him with me 
every minute of the four years.” Louise paused 
again, gasping a little for breath as she made her 
final appeal. “Think what it is to beg another 
woman to take from you what you would give your 
life to keep yourself!” She went on earnestly; “yes, 
and I do beg you, Madame—take the boy, and your 
house will be filled with sunshine, take the boy, and 
you will have happiness; the greatest happiness a 
woman can have.” 

Louise paused to look at Vesta with a searching 
gaze to see what impression her plea was making 
upon her, but Vesta remained unmoved; for she felt 
she had complete command of the situation. Louise 
meant nothing to her save that the longer she 
stayed, the more she reminded her of what she 
wanted to forget. David had told her his love affair 
had died long since; *and she was his lawful wife, to 


220 SURRENDER! 

whom he was bound as he himself had said by ties 
that would not easily be cut asunder; and as she 
returned Louise's glance, she felt as if an immeasur¬ 
able distance lay between them. 

“All I have had," continued Louise desperately, 
remarking Vesta’s studied coldness, “you will have 
—what he has been to me he will be to you. Believe 
me! Believe me!" 

“I cannot believe a woman," retorted Vesta in a 
harsh voice, “who took my hand in friendship, 
knowing . . ." 

“No," exclaimed Louise, interrupting her, “not 
that. I did not do that. I did not know his real 
name! It was only last night that I knew for the 
first time that he was David Anson-Pond." 

Vesta had a feeling of sudden pity for Louise, but 
she quickly suppressed it as she answered, “Even 
if what you say is true, that does not make what 
you did right. But right means nothing to you; 
one man or another . . 

“No, Madame," interrupted Louise firmly, “one 
man and no other. I am not a slave to my body, 
for four years I have lived my life in London, faith¬ 
ful to a memory, and my son. Here you may sit 
down calmly and think whether it was right or 
wrong, but if you had been a Frenchwoman in Paris 
then, you would have said to yourself as I did, this 
man has come to fight for my country. My country! 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 221 

My heart went out to him. I gave him my sympathy 
—you would have given it too!” 

“Not,” retorted Vesta with contempt, “in your 
way.” 

Louise shrugged her shoulders pathetically in 
answer.. “You have your nature,” she said, “I have 
mine; we can only go the way of our natures.” 

Vesta made a movement of disgust. “There is 
such a thing as restraint,” she replied caustically. 
“There is such a thing as self-respect . . . There 
are many things, that you do not count.” 

“When a Frenchwoman loves,” retorted Louise 
proudly, “she does not count the cost of her 
romance, she gives!” 

“You have the impudence to cover yourself with 
that French rag you call ‘Romance’,” answered 
Vesta contemptuously. 

“It is the only rag I have left,” said Louise. 
“Would you take it from me?” But that was a 
point of view which Louise could never have made 
Vesta understand, had she talked for hour upon 
hour and Vesta turned away from her seeking a 
method to close the interview. 

“I’ve heard quite enough,” she answered at length, 
“I am annoyed with myself for listening to you at all. 
You come of a class that cares nothing for the de¬ 
cencies of life; you don’t know what it means to a 
woman to have one thing sacred to her. You sneak 


222 


SURRENDER! 


into a clean house and leave your dirty footmarks 
behind you, like a common thief.” 

“Thief ?” repeated Louise, not understanding what 
Vesta meant. 

“That’s the plain English of it,” answered Vesta 
scornfully. 

“But it is myself I rob,” replied Louise, still not 
understanding. 

“You must keep your stolen goods,” said Vesta, 
finality in her tone, “You are trying to get out of 
trouble, but you’ve made your bed and you and your 
child must lie upon it.” 

Louise at last understood Vesta and realizing that 
she had allowed herself to be insulted for nothing, 
and that her boy was discarded, retorted bitterly. 
“I am a mother, but because I have not the cover 
of the wedding sheet, I am to you a wicked woman ; 
but that does not satisfy you, you would brand my 
child for life.” 

“That’s not my affair,” answered Vesta. “I’ve 
nothing to do with the child.” 

“You keep from him his birthright,” said Louise, 
“his father’s name and his father’s protection.” 

Vesta came towards her thoroughly aroused. 

“You make me responsible for that?” she ex¬ 
claimed. “You are cunning—you have dramatized 
your situation with all the cleverness of your race, 
and you expect me to hail your love affair as an 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 


223 


artistic achievement, and to crown it above all 
things by taking your illegitimate child into my 
house?”. . . 

“Illegitimate!” interrupted Louise angrily. “He 
is a human being'; he has the same form as other 
children; you have no right to call a child illegiti¬ 
mate who is bom of a woman. If God had meant 
to give the marriage bed the monopoly of ‘His 
Spirit/ he would not have created my boy in His 
own image. Illegitimate! You do not understand 
the meaning of the word.” 

“I understand you,” Yesta retorted, angry in her 
turn. “I have heard enough. You forced yourself 
upon me, and I . . .” 

“Forced?” interrupted Louise scornfully. “I have 
never forced myself into your house; you begged 
and begged me to come. When I amuse you, you 
honor me: when I give your country my child, I 
am dirt under your feet!” 

Vesta made a movement towards the bell. “There 
is only one name for a woman who acts as you 
have,” she exclaimed, her voice barely under control. 

“Enough,” answered Louise, her eyes blazing with 
anger. “Enough of your hints. What is that 
word?” 

Vesta turned towards Louise, but in looking into 
her face she lowered her eyes and did not answer. 

“You are ashamed to say it,” exclaimed Louise 


224 SURRENDER! 

continuing, “because you know I do not deserve that 
word!” 

Vesta on being challenged in this way once more 
turned her back on Louise and went towards the 
bell. “How dare you!” she exclaimed. 

“How dare you?” repeated Louise, goaded at last 
into losing her temper. “You would call me a name 
which you deserve yourself. I have given your 
husband what you refused him—a son! I am not 
guilty of the sin you have committed. You refuse 
to bear a child and you call me a . . 

“Leave my house at once,” interrupted Vesta, 
but seeing Louise going rapidly to the door, she re¬ 
frained from pressing the bell. 

At this moment the door opened from the other 
side, and David entered. 

Louise started back as he came into the room, 
and Vesta’s hand left the bell to fall to her side. 
David, amazed at seeing Louise there, looked from 
one woman to another, and at the sight of their 
flushed faces he knew that Louise must have been 
trying to persuade Vesta on her own account, and 
must have failed. 

“Madame Deloryse!” he exclaimed at length, the 
unfamiliar name coming with difficulty from his lips. 

Louise, who had been standing still near the door, 
threw out her hands in front of her. “It is finished!” 
she said in a despairing voice, and without waiting 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 


225 


for David to reply, or giving so much as a glance 
towards Vesta, she went quickly through the open 
door down the carpeted stairs, and opening the front 
door herself, stepped out into her waiting motor car, 
which carried her homewards, angry that she should 
have been so humiliated, and bitter at the thought 
of the future. 

David and Vesta stood staring at one another for 
a moment after the departure of Louise. 

“You see,” said Vesta at last, “to what you’ve 
subjected me,” as she nodded towards the open door 
which David closed before answering her. 

“It was inevitable,” he said calmly, “that you and 
Madame Deloryse should meet. I’m glad it’s over 
and done with.” 

But Vesta was not prepared to let David off as 
lightly as that; she was not certain that she had 
shown herself in an altogether good light in the in¬ 
terview with Louise; and in any case she had been 
talked to in a way she had never before experienced. 

“It is not over and done with by any means,” she 
retorted as she paced the room angrily in front of 
David. The more she thought of Louise and the 
scene that had just taken place, the more incensed 
she felt against David that he should be the ultimate 
cause of it all. 

“Don’t let’s argue any more about it,” said David. 
“I beg of you to forget my fault to be big enough to 


226 


SURRENDER! 


help me to do the right thing. Women face these 
things differently now.” 

“Yes, I daresay they do,” answered Yesta, “some 
wives are glad to keep their husbands, even . . . 
even in these circumstances.” 

“Eve heard you say that they are right in these 
circumstances,” argued David. 

Yesta felt the time had come to make a definite 
decision, and she drew a deep breath as she faced 
David. “It’s easy to talk in another woman’s case,” 
she parried. “When it comes home—it’s different. 
My answer” and she paused a moment before con¬ 
tinuing, “is no, a thousand times, no!” 

David, who had expected this reply, watched her 
in silence as she faced him. 

“You mean that?” he asked sternly. 

“I do,” said Yesta. 

“Think well,” returned David, “before you 
decide.” 

Yesta still faced him, but a little uncomfortably. 
He had another card to play? There could be no 
other card for him if she refused; so, Yesta quickly 
reasoned with herself before replying. 

“It is for you to decide,” she answered at length, 
“what is most necessary for your happiness. Your 
legitimate wife or your illegitimate child. But I 
warn you, if you persist in your outrageous demand, 
it may end in the loss of your position.” 


WOMAN TO WOMAN 227 

David saw then that the break must come and he 
answered Vesta quickly enough. 

“Have you thought,” he asked, “if you persist in 
your refusal, what your loss will be?” 

Vesta looked at him strangely for a moment; he 
couldn’t mean he would go away with Deloryse the 
dancer, and leave her for the sake of the child? 

“You mean to say you’d go so far so to . . .” she 
asked haltingly. “I mean to go all the way,” in¬ 
terrupted David. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” answered Vesta, still 
believing that David was merely frightening her. 

“I want my boy,” replied David, turning towards 
the door. “I want him badly, and by God,” he 
said, facing her again, “I’m going to have him, 
either in this house or another!” 

He did not wait for Vesta’s answer, but opening 
the door quickly, he passed through, slamming it 
after him, and Vesta remained motionless whilst the 
echoes reverberated throughout the bouse until 
there came a sudden silence. 


X 


SACRIFICE 

A FTER the events of that morning, the day 
seemed to drag itself very slowly through its 
accustomed course for Louise, Vesta, and David. 
David after leaving his wife had hurried down to 
his office in the hope that work might relieve his 
mind of the weight of his cares. He was anxious to 
give Vesta full time to appreciate her position before 
going to Louise with the plan of throwing in his 
lot with hers for the welfare of the child; for he had 
meant what he had said to Vesta, and he was de¬ 
termined that whatever might happen to his own 
family life and whatever might happen to himself 
personally, the child should be his first care. 

Vesta meanwhile, her plans for the dance finished 
and her committee meeting over, sat down in her 
boudoir to think. She had never believed it possible 
that David would have thrown over everything in 
the way he had done that morning, for the sake of 
the child. It was almost unbelievable to her that he 
should care so much for a being he had only seen 
once in his life; and the fact that he did so care, 
caused a great sadness in her heart that she had 
refused to have children when he had so wanted 
228 


SACRIFICE 229 

them. That the romance of Paris was over she had 
no doubt; there was no competition between Louise 
and herself; even at the thought of such a thing 
Vesta drew herself up as one who had been insulted. 
If there had been no child, she argued, there would 
have been no mention to her of this affair. But the 
child—there was the crux of the whole problem. 
Whoever possessed the child, possessed David. 

Vesta had flung up in David’s face the loss of his 
position; but that was no bar to his departure; and 
to the Vesta so changed inwardly by the war it no 
longer appealed as a real argument. She loved 
David not for the social position in which his money 
could support her, as had been the case when first 
she married him; she did not love him for any 
business reputation that reflected a dim halo, but 
for himself alone. When she had gone to him in 
Switzerland after the War and had confessed her 
mistake, that had been a great deal for a person of 
Vesta’s nature to do. She did not easily confess her 
faults, and she did so simply because she loved at 
last him whom she had so nearly lost. 

It was not a case now, however, of losing him 
upon a foreign soil in a melee of men and filth, but 
of losing him to another woman for the sake of a 
child. 

Her attitude towards Louise in the morning had 
been dictated by the thought that she held David s 


230 


SURRENDER! 


heart in her hands, and that only through her mercy 
could he win. She had withheld her mercy, but on 
opening her hands, had found only emptiness. 

Gradually, in the course of the day, as she turned 
the matter over and over in her mind, and as David 
made no further effort to approach her, Vesta 
realized that if she were to keep David and her 
home together she must make up her mind im¬ 
mediately and not allow the time to go past when 
an irrevocable decision might have been made. As 
she went to dress for the dinner that was to precede 
the ball she thought perhaps it would be best for 
her to see David and agree to take the child. 

But her intention to see David was frustrated by 
his not having returned by seven o'clock; this con¬ 
tinued absence held untold terrors for Vesta, who 
began to imagine that, acting on the spur of the 
moment and without any reflection, he had decided 
to break with her and had actually left the house for 
good and all. So convinced was she that this must 
be the case that, throwing her pride to the winds, she 
hurried through her dressing and left the house 
shortly after seven o’clock, ordering her chauffeur 
to drive straight to Louise’s house. 

Vesta’s conjectures as to David were very nearly 
correct, for he had spent the day arranging things 
at the office so that he could go away and leave them 
for a time and had given out that he was overworked 


SACRIFICE 231 

and was preparing to take a short holiday in France, 
whither he was departing that night. That done, he 
had picked up his hat and coat and left; not for 
South Audley Street but for Louise’s house to ex¬ 
plain to her the plans he had made for them both, 
and what the future held in store. 

Louise, however, knew of none of these things 
and as the day drew to its close, she began to fear 
that David would not come even to say good-bye to 
her; in the solitude of her house she gathered little 
Davey to herself, in an endeavor to persuade her 
mind that all was well. She had him; and he who 
had always been her comfort throughout the long 
years of David’s absence would be her solace 
through the future, for it never occurred to Louise 
that David would break with Vesta for love of her¬ 
self and the child: and she awaited his arrival with 
a heavy heart, feeling sure that that was to be the 
end of their short reunion. Gavron had gone round 
the first thing that morning and told her manager 
that Madame Deloryse must go out of the bill for 
a week at any rate; he had not said any more at 
that moment for fear of raising too great a storm; 
but even as it was the manager had attempted to 
get hold of Louise several times during the day, 
but to all inquiries Miss Wilson had replied that 
Madame Deloryse was too ill to be worried. 

Half-past six found Louise nervously walkmg 


232 


SURRENDER! 


backwards and forwards; a sound outside stopped 
her agitated steps as many sounds that day had pre¬ 
viously done; and she turned towards the window, 
listening tensely. A car had stopped outside. 

Quickly Louise crossed the room and pressed the 
bell. 

“Henriette! Henriette!” she called. “Willy! 
Willy!” Henriette and Miss Wilson entered 
hurriedly from opposite directions in response to 
her call and Louise stopped nervously in front of 
them. 

“I ring,” she exclaimed, “I ring and nobody 
comes! I have so many servants and I wait on 
them”; she paused and turned towards Miss Wilson. 
“I heard a car stop—someone for me?” 

Miss Wilson shook her head in reply. “No, 
Madame, for next door,” she answered, wondering at 
Louise’s agitation. 

“Ah, I was sure it was for me,” exclaimed Louise, 
her anxious eyes looking towards the window again. 
“When Mr. Anson-Pond comes, not one second do 
you waste—up here at once!” 

“Yes, Madame,” answered Miss Wilson, as she 
turned towards the door. “I’ve been looking for 
hours,” she added as she went out. But Henriette 
laughed directly when Louise and she were alone. 

“You—you foolish one,” exclaimed Louise. “Why 
do you laugh?” 


SACRIFICE 


233 


Henriette, whom the threatened loss of little 
Davey had unnerved, laughed again hysterically. 

"I am so happy, Madame,” she said at length. 

“Happy!” repeated Louise in surprise. “Have I 
not told you the bad news?” 

“It is good news to me,” retorted Henriette, re¬ 
gaining her self-control, “I shall keep the boy.” 

“But he will be without a father,” replied Louise, 
looking towards the door of little Davey’s room. 

“You know he would not leave his boy,” said 
Henriette with more conviction than she really felt. 

“How do I know what he will do?” answered 
Louise in a broken, harsh voice. 

A knock at the front door, however, cut short her 
further reply and she rushed towards the door of 
her boudoir crying “At last, he arrives!” Whilst 
Henriette, after waiting to see if it really was 
David, went out and left them alone. 

“Well? Well?” said Louise, almost before David 
had entered the room, anxious to know what had 
been the outcome of matters between himself and 
Vesta after she had gone, but realizing all the time 
that he must have failed. 

“It’s all over,” answered David wearily, as he con¬ 
firmed her suspicions. “I’ve failed.” 

“She is a hard woman!” exclaimed Louise, as she 
sat down upon a chair and watched David as he 
strode about the room. 


234 


SURRENDER! 


“Lolo,” he said at last, “why did you go to my 
house? You might have known I'd do my best.” 

“I thought she would refuse you,” answered 
Louise simply. 

“Well, when I failed,” said David, “how could 
you expect to . . .” 

“Your wife,” interrupted Louise, “said once she 
would do anything for me—I thought perhaps she 
would do this.” 

David passed his hand over his forehead wearily. 
“It was a pity,” he replied, “it would have been 
better to have avoided your meeting; after all,” he 
added, appreciating Vesta's position to the full, “you 
can't expect . . .” 

“A Frenchwoman,” interrupted Louise excitedly, 
“she is a wife too, and she takes the child of her 
husband; she is human and will not make the in¬ 
nocent one suffer.” 

David, seeing it was no use trying to explain to 
Louise the difference between the French viewpoint 
and the English, changed the subject abruptly. 

“I've been thinking matters over,” he said, “I 
shall not return to my house; my wife's solicitor 
will meet my solicitor,” and he added dryly, “the two 
old boys will have a jolly time over it anyhow. What 
are your plans?” 

Louise rose to her feet. 

“Plans,” she stammered, “I have none.” 


SACRIFICE 235 

“I mean your professional plans,” amended 
David, who had of course been told nothing of 
Gavron’s warning and to whom this part of the 
business had presented the greatest of difficulties. 

“I have no profession!” answered Louise, throw¬ 
ing out her hands. “It is finished!” 

David looked at her in surprise. 

“Finished? What’s that?” he said uncompre- 
hendingly. “Since when?” 

Louise remembered then that she had not told 
him she was leaving the stage, although she had 
meant to tell him the previous evening as she had 
promised Gavron. 

“Did I not tell you last night?” she parried, 
anxious that David should not know of the weak¬ 
ness of her heart. “It was settled I leave the stage. 

“Did you?” answered David, trying in vain to 
remember, “then I forgot it. I say,” he added, you 
are not doing this for my sake?” David s half asked 
question put Louise in a dilemma, but determining 
not to raise any anxiety in his mind, she assented in 
a hesitating voice after a slight pause. 

“Yes, David,” she said, “for you.” 

“But this is a very serious decision for you to 
make,” answered David who was afraid that Louise 
might want to return later on. 

“Yes, it is that,” replied Louise. “Are you sorry?” 


236 SURRENDER! 

“Am I sorry?” reiterated David. “No, no, little 
girl, it will fit in exactly with my own idea.” 

Louise now aware that David was going to ask 
her to go away with him and take the boy with 
them, felt a qualm of misgiving at the wreck such 
an action must necessarily leave behind them, and 
with that thought running in her mind she answered' 
his unspoken question. 

“David,” she said earnestly. “I don’t want you to 
break up your home for me.” 

Rut David had gone too far now for any appeal 
to make him waver; he had set his heart on the boy 
and he was determined that cost what it might, be 
it his home and his reputation, he would have him. 

“It’s not you that’s breaking it up,” he answered 
bitterly, “it’s dry rot! I’ve been trying to carry on 
all my married life without the one thing I craved 
for; it was calmly pointed out to me in my own 
house that others were satisfied to live that sort of 
life. What a life! What a crowd! Smug, well-fed 
and bursting with prosperity. Mean little lives with 
mean little morals! There is no human impulse in 
them; they push along so fast through life, they 
haven’t even time to pluck a flower from its wayside, 
their bulging eyes see everything but beauty. It 
made my heart sick to think of myself among that 
lot, but Im out of it now; I’ve turned my back on 
that respected, cold blooded thing called “my 


SACRIFICE 237 

position’, and I am going to do what I think right 
and so must you.” 

Louise watched him with ever widening eyes dur¬ 
ing his outburst; she had never seen David so 
earnest, and so full of purpose before. This was a 
new David to her; David the man of forceful 
character, the head of a big engineering firm. 

“I will do,” she answered at last, “whatever you 
think is right, David.” 

“Dear little girl,” said David in a tender voice, 
realizing once again the extent of her trust in him, 
“you shall keep the boy, and damn the con¬ 
sequences.” 

“David,” cried Louise, the Louise of old, the 
Louise of the Rue Vauges, “Love is the great thing; 
not that,” she continued, snapping her fingers de¬ 
risively, “do I care for the consequences.” Impul¬ 
sively she came towards him, trying to put back the 
hand of time and forgetting everything for the 
moment in the knowledge that David was to be hers 
once more. “You shall have your sweetheart just 
the same,” she murmured, placing her lips upon 
his, “and your son. With him we will five our love 
story all over again. I am content.” 

“We will be married, dear,” David answered, pat¬ 
ting her gently on the shoulder, “just as soon as my 
wife gets her divorce. You mustn’t mind if things 


238 SURRENDER! 

are difficult. I can’t see my way exactly at the 
moment.” 

Louise lifted her face to his. “I see you/’ she 
murmured, “you see me, and little Davey; what 
more do you want?” But David knew in spite of 
Louise’s certainty that things were not as he had 
wanted them; and Vesta’s refusal rankled in his 
heart. 

“Little Davey,” he repeated. “Where is he?” 

“Why, in bed, of course,” answered Louise laugh¬ 
ing, “he will never be a strong boy unless he sleeps. 

“That is just as well,” replied David, drawing 
away from her embrace, “for we shall leave London 
to-night, and I don’t suppose he’ll get much sleep 
later on.” Louise looked at him in astonishment. 

“To-night!” she said in a breathless voice. “To¬ 
night! But where are we going?” 

“Why, to Paris,” answered David, “the sooner we 
start the sooner the whole business will be over. 

“It is too much,” replied Louise in a happy ex¬ 
cited voice. 

“If you look sharp we can catch the night train,” 
said David catching some of her enthusiasm. 

“I can go this minute just as I am,” replied Louise, 
rushing towards him and kissing him. 

“Lolo,” protested David, pleased at her happiness. 

“A fur coat will cover everything,” said Louise 


SACRIFICE 239 

standing away from him again and surveying her 
dress. 

David pulled out his watch and looked at it. 

“You’ve just got time to dress and pack/’ he said, 
putting the watch away hurriedly. “I must get some 
things together too and telephone for rooms. I’ll 
be back in an hour; that’ll give us twenty minutes to 
get to the station; my car can do it in ten.” 

Louise in her excitement put her hands upon his 
shoulders almost pushing him from the room. 
“Hurry, hurry,” she cried, “I am afraid you will be 
late. I shall not breathe till I am in the train.” 

“You’ll be ready to jump in the car as soon as I 
get back,” said David over his shoulder, as he went 
out. 

“I’ll be waiting on the doorstep with little Davey 
in my hands,” Louise assured him, and almost before 
the outer door had closed behind him, she was crying 
out excitedly, “Henriette! Henriette!” 

Henriette, noticing the change in her voice from 
anxiety to gladness, came hurrying in to the boudoir 
in response to Louise’s call. 

“We go to Paris to-night with David,” exclaimed 
Louise. 

“And me too?” asked Henriette anxiously. 

“No, no—not you, you can come after,” answered 
Louise, “just me and little Davey and his father. 
Pack my small trunk and bring my dressing case to 


240 SURRENDER! 

me. Tell Willy I leave to-night and to pack all my 
letters in a bag.” 

Henriette, infected with Louise’s excitement, 
rushed here there and everywhere. The dressing 
case was brought out of the bedroom and Louise 
began to pack her various belongings; lingerie and 
dresses were piled by Henriette in the middle of the 
floor; a trunk was hauled from under the stairs into 
Louise’s bedroom. In a moment all was confusion 
and chaos. Whilst Henriette attempted to fold 
everything tidily, Louise who thought David might 
be back at any moment threw everything in that 
came to her hands just as it was. 

“When shall I wake the little one?” asked Hen¬ 
riette. 

“Oh, er . . hesitated Louise, then continued 
quickly, “When the packing is done, and you must 
dress him all ready to start.” 

“Bien, Madame said Henriette continuing to 
pack feverishly. There was a slight pause whilst 
Henriette smiled to hear Louise humming to herself 
in her gladness. 

“Deloryse will have a great reception in Paris,” 
panted Henriette at length. 

“Deloryse does not go,” answered Louise shortly. 

“Not go!” exclaimed Henriette, pausing for a 
moment. 

“No,” said Louise happily, “it will be little Louise 


SACRIFICE 


241 


Boucher who will go. Nobody knows her; nobody 
cares for the little girl but one big man and his name 
is David. Did I not tell you he would do his best 
for me and the boy?” 

Henriette slowly began to realize the situation. 

“There will be trouble,” she muttered, returning 
once more to her task. 

“Ah, you are a calamity,” exclaimed Louise, 
throwing a handful of stockings into the trunk. “I 
am not ready! I am not packed, and there is little 
Davey to be dressed. You talk so much I will miss 
the train.” 

In their excitement neither of them had heard a 
knock on the outer door and Miss Wilson entering 
regarded the confusion with astonished eyes. 

“You have the letters?” cried Louise, holding out 
her hand for the packet. 

“I have not had time to collect them all yet,” 
answered Miss Wilson. “Mrs. Anson-Pond has 
called, Madame.” 

There was an instant silence in the room, as Hen¬ 
riette who had come into the boudoir with the toilet 
things for the dressing case waited for Louise’s 
answer. Louise herself was dumbfounded for the 
moment. 

“Say,” she said at length, “I will not see her . . . 
say I am not at home.” Miss Wilson hesitated a 
little. 


242 


SURRENDER! 


“I told Mrs. Anson-Pond,” she answered, “that 
you were very busy; that you were going away and 
I did not think it possible for you to see her . . ” 

“Yes?” interrupted Louise impatiently. 

“And she said,” continued Miss Wilson, “she 
would not keep you long; only a few minutes; it 
was most important. I said you couldn’t possibly 
see her.” Louise looked at Miss Wilson incredu¬ 
lously. 

“And she did not go?” she asked. 

“No,” said Miss Wilson, “she said she must see 
you before you left London, and that it would be a 
great misfortune if she did not.” Louise hesitated 
a moment wondering what could have happened and 
what was the reason of Vesta’s visit. 

“Misfortune?” she echoed. “What does she want 
of me? . . .” She hesitated but a moment longer 
and then made up her mind. “I will see her,” she 
said to Miss Wilson. 

“Yes, Madame,” answered Miss Wilson going out 
to fetch Vesta. 

“Henriette,” said Louise, “go to Davey.” 

Henriette rose slowly to her feet and made her 
way into Davey’s bedroom shaking her head as she 
went. 

“I will go and get him ready,” she answered, and 
as she closed the door, Miss Wilson announced Vesta. 
Louise remained standing in the middle of the room 


SACRIFICE 243 

and glanced coldly at Vesta who, dressed for the 
ball, came in slowly. The positions of the two women 
were now reversed and Vesta s face wore a subdued 
and anxious appearance as she approached Louise. 

“Madame?” said Louise in a distant questioning 
voice. 

“I am sorry to disturb you when you are so busy, 
began Vesta, casting her eyes upon the litter of 
clothing lying all over the floor, “with your prepara¬ 
tions for leaving town, but I . . .” 

“I cannot understand,” interrupted Louise bit¬ 
terly, “why you come to the house of a common 
woman.” 

Vesta realized that her task was to be by no means 
easy in that she had antagonized Louise. 

“Please don’t say that,” protested Vesta. 

“It is you who have said it,” commented Louise. 
Vesta came forward towards her and began to 
apologize. 

“j_I W as very much upset this morning,” she 

said with difficulty, acknowledging her fault. “I lost 
my temper, and in a temper, she added smiling 
feebly, “one often says and does foolish things.” 

Louise shrugged her shoulders wondering in the 
meantime what had led Vesta to visit her. 

“We are none of us perfect,” continued Vesta, 
“we all make mistakes. After you left my house 
this morning, I turned it all over in my mind and 


244 


SURRENDER! 


decided I must see you again. I am obliged to go to 
the ball to-night, as you know, but I felt I could 
not go without seeing you.” 

Louise who had no intention of accepting any 
apology from Vesta for her behavior of the morn¬ 
ing, drew herself up. 

“Madame,” she answered, "I am sorry you give 
yourself the trouble; there is nothing more to . . .” 

“Ah yes, there is,” interrupted Vesta. “Believe 
me, with a little common sense on both sides, we can 
put things in their proper place. It would certainly 
be a great misfortune if we were not to try.” 

“For you?” asked Louise who began to appreciate 
that Vesta had some proposal to make to her. 

“For both of us,” answered Vesta earnestly. “I am 
speaking as much in your interests as in my own.” 
Louise smiled at her cynically. 

“I can take care of my interests,” she said, “it is 
you who have taught me.” 

“We will both look after our own, naturally,” con¬ 
ceded Vesta, “but although you think we are wide 
apart, our interests are mutual. If you will look at 
it like that . . .” 

“No, madame, I cannot,” exclaimed Louise in an 
emphatic voice. Vesta remained silent for a 
moment considering how best to open the purpose 
of her visit. 

“You said this afternoon,” she went on at length, 


SACRIFICE 245 

“that I did not know the feelings of a mother: you 
do not know the feelings of a wife.” Vesta paused 
again for a moment, overcome at the thought of 
perhaps losing David. “But I didn’t come here, 
she continued in a firmer voice, “to make a senti¬ 
mental appeal. I am not the martyr type of woman. 

I came to show you how things can be straightened 
out in a manner satisfactory to both of us.” 

Louise who felt that now she had admitted Vesta 
she could not very well refuse to listen to her mo¬ 
tioned her to be seated and then sat down herself. 

“They cannot,” she said decisively. Vesta hesi¬ 
tated a moment and throwing off her opera cloak 
sat down facing her. 

“Yes, yes, they can,” she argued. “When men 
have an affair to settle they come together 'man to 
man’. Now I have left my scruples and all my 
moral ideas at home, and I have come to you with¬ 
out any prejudice to talk to you, as one woman to 
another.” 

Louise made a movement of impatience. 

“You have proved to me this morning,” she 
answered, “that that is impossible. 

“But I was wrong,” answered Vesta quickly. “I 
have acknowledged it; I ask you to play the game, 
she continued looking straight at Louise, as men 
do; we will both do what is fair and square; what 


246 


SURRENDER! 


is right.” Louise leant back a little in her chair and 
drew a deep breath. 

“What do you want me to do?” she asked slowly. 

Vesta realized as Louise had done that morning 
when the positions had been reversed that the 
moment was at hand when she must succeed or 
fail in her quest. 

“You said,” answered Vesta, “you had taken up 
your responsibilities and asked me to take up mine, 
didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” acknowledged Louise. 

“Your boy’s future was your responsibility, wasn’t 
it?” persisted Vesta. 

“Yes,” acknowledged Louise not quite following 
at what Vesta was driving. 

“To insure his future,” went on Vesta, “you asked 
me to take him into my husband’s—his father’s 
house —that you said was my responsibility.” 

“And you refused it,” added Louise. 

“But,” said Vesta after a moment’s pause, as if 
weighing her words to the uttermost, “I accept it 
now.” 

Louise started back in dismay; now it was plain 
to her; Vesta had come to plead for the child; but 
the position was altered since the morning, for she 
was certain of David now, and they were all going 
to Paris that night. 

“No, no,” she answered, “I will not.” 


SACRIFICE 247 

“But this afternoon,” argued Vesta desperately, 
“You begged and begged of me to take your boy.” 

“I changed my mind,” replied Louise. “I cannot 
give him up!” 

“Then you did not mean what you said this 
morning?” persisted Vesta. 

“I meant it then . . . every word,” answered 
Louise emphatically. Vesta at this concession re¬ 
turned to the attack with renewed hope. 

“Then you no longer care about his future!” she 
exclaimed. “You evade the responsibility; that is 
not fair to your boy. That is not playing the game.” 

“You cannot say that,” answered Louise swiftly. 
“The position is changed: the father goes away; 
where the boy is, the father will go.” Vesta seeing 
that Louise had found the answer to the problem 
agreed. 

“There is no question about that,” she said. 
Louise felt as if a great weight had been lifted from 
her. 

“Ah then, it is understood,” she answered in an 
animated voice. “I will keep the boy . . . and you, 
you will get the divorce?” She waited a moment 
but as Vesta did not reply she continued, “that is 
the way you 'play the game’ in England, hem?” 
Vesta watched her animation with dull eyes. 

“I’m not going to play the game that way,” she 
said, speaking with great deliberation. “I’m not 


248 SURRENDER! 

going to break up my home, and my husband’s 
home, for a transient affair which you both stated 
would not have happened but for the War. There 
is another way, better for all of us. . . .” 

“Madame,” answered Louise rising to her feet, 
“your husband has decided, he comes to-night for his 
boy; and we go together. It is finished.” Vesta 
made no attempt to move from her chair. 

“I am not going to rave,” she said, “about your 
taking my husband away from me; you or any 
other woman couldn’t do it if he didn’t want to go; 
and he is going because I forced him to go; because 
I refused to do what he asked. If I had gone to 
him to-night and said ‘I will take your boy’, he 
would have welcomed me with open arms. I could 
not find him, and I come to you with all good feel¬ 
ing to save you from further unhappiness.” 

No,” answered Louise in an unbelieving voice. 
“It is to save yourself.” 

“Yes,” acknowledged Vesta, “myself as well. I 
told you our interests were both at stake. Can’t you 
see if my husband had not thought it was for the 
best he would never have asked me to take the 
child? He is a man of the world—he knows. I 
was wrong to refuse, and I have come here to-night 
to ask you to tell him-” 

“To ask me,” interrupted Louise bitterly, “Why 
should I take a message from you to him?” 



SACRIFICE 249 

"Because it is in your own interest/’ asserted 
Vesta. 

"My only interest/’ retorted Louise, "is to keep 
my boy!” 

Vesta felt that the moment had arrived when she 
must play her last card; if that failed, then her 
world must come tumbling about her feet; there 
would remain no more to be done and David was 
lost. 

"There is one thing,” she said in deliberate tones, 
"that you don’t seem to understand. I will make 
it quite clear to you. Whatever my husband decides 
to do, I shall not seek a divorce.” 

There was a tense silence upon Vesta’s statement, 
and Louise looked at her askance for a moment ; she 
had never thought that Vesta would refuse to give 
David his freedom; that had seemed to follow so 
much as a matter of course that neither she nor 
David had considered the position apart from it. 

"It is for revenge,” Louise answered hotly at 
length, "that you will not.” But Vesta shook her 
head slowly in answer. 

"If that were my motive,” she replied, "I should 
not have come to you. I will not seek a divorce 
because I do not wish to have my private life dis¬ 
cussed in public. I will not go to the courts to ask 
for a restitution of my rights.” 

Louise made a gesture of despair; matters had not 


250 


SURRENDER! 


been changed since the beginning of the struggle, but 
she refused to acknowledge this to herself. Vesta 
watching the shadows deepen upon the face of 
Louise knew that she must win; she had only to 
push her point home. Without the divorce there 
could be no status for Louise, still less for the boy 
for whose future Louise was struggling so hard. 
The triumphant spirit of gladness had left Louise, 
and a dogged desperation had taken its place. A 
wave of compassion swept over Vesta as she came 
to realize the fruits of her victory; she almost at 
that moment abandoned David, her home, and her 
position to Louise; but the moment passed and 
with its passage she resumed her argument, but in a 
softer voice. 

“You also lost your temper this morning,” she 
said “and since then, in your excitement you have 
changed your mind, but you must see now you are 
calm that the reasons which forced you to come and 
see me this morning have not changed.” 

“They have changed! They have!” exclaimed 
Louise desperately. 

“You have changed,” continued Vesta, in a relent¬ 
less voice, “not the reasons; you've made a change 
and for the worse. Forgive me, but I must speak 
plainly. I know your temperament, you are carried 
away by an impulse which is very human but very 
selfish. This morning you thought only of your boy; 


SACRIFICE 251 

in that you were wonderful—to-night you are think¬ 
ing only of yourself.” 

Louise, who resented any accusation that she was 
not doing her best for the boy, came forward towards 
Vesta. 

“No! No!” she answered wildly. “Never, 
Madame, have I had one thought that was not for 
the good of my boy . . 

“I am afraid you have this time,” replied Vesta, 
her voice gentler in its reproach. 

“Prove it,” said Louise boldly. It was like a 
game of poker and she had called her opponent’s 
bluff; but Louise knew that Vesta was not bluffing; 
and her challenge was the challenge of a player who 
cannot rest content till all her opponent’s hand lies 
displayed before her eyes. Even as Vesta answered, 
Louise tried to nerve herself to resist. 

“What you have planned,” she heard Vesta’s voice 
saying, “what you propose to do will bring nothing 
but misery and unhappiness to three lives; my 
husband’s, your boy’s, and mine. You will pull 
down an old respected house to try and build up 
your own; but it won’t hold together with the old 
material; my husband’s position cannot stand an 
open violation of public form. He will feel it in his 
business of which he is so proud; his friends will 
make him feel it still more keenly. He would be 
separated from the life to which he is accustomed, 


252 


SURRENDER! 


and,” Vesta shook her head, “he is too old to form 
new habits, to make new friends! He would feel 
himself out of everything. Do you know what this 
would mean?” Vesta paused for a moment and 
then continued slowly. “He would come to hate 
the woman who was the cause of it all.” 

Louise had faced Vesta proudly at the beginning 
of her answer, but as she continued, she shrank 
farther and farther away until she collapsed rather 
than sat down on the chaise longue. Her hands 
tremblingly sought her face and she cried gently as 
a woman without hope. Vesta watched he? in 
silence for a moment, and then continued. 

“And your boy,” she said tenderly, “what would 
be his position? He would not be the son of David 
Anson-Pond. In the eyes of the world he would be 
your son. As he grew older he would begin to ask 
questions. What would you say? What could you 
say?” 

Louise took her hands down from her face and 
made a pitiful effort to answer; but no sound came 
from her throat, dry with sobbing, and instead she 
made a gesture of despair, as looking straight in 
front of her, she tried to assemble in her mind the 
pieces of the picture Vesta had drawn. 

As she sat thus the door of little Davey’s bed¬ 
room opened, and Henriette’s voice was heard. 

“Come here, you bad child, I have not finished 


SACRIFICE 


253 


dressing you yet,” she said, “you must not go and 
see your mother. She is not ready for you.” But 
Henriette's admonition was unavailing, and little 
Davey ran into the room, unconscious of the presence 
of Vesta. Henriette stood in the doorway for a 
moment, took a hasty glance at Vesta and then feel¬ 
ing she could do nothing went back into Davey’s 
bedroom again, closing the door behind her. 

Louise on hearing Davey enter had quickly dried 
her eyes, and held out her arms towards him; but 
Davey hesitated to come to her when he saw Vesta. 

Vesta half rose to her feet as she saw little Davey 
for the first time; she was conscious of a feeling of 
relief that the child should be so beautiful; she had 
never imagined it anything else but ugly. Then in 
the beauty of the boy's face she saw the likeness to 
David; and her heart was touched as neither Louise 
nor David had been able to touch it with all their 
pleading. 

“Mother,” said Davey, as he stood irresolutely in 
the middle of the floor. Vesta, who had sunk down 
again in her chair and was still looking at the boy 
in unfeigned admiration, leant forward. 

“Come here, little boy,” she said gently. Davey’s 
eyes turned from Louise to regard Vesta, and her 
dress, which drew his attention more than she did 
herself. 

“He is called David,” interposed Louise softly, the 


254 SURRENDER! 

bitterness vanishing from her voice as she looked at 
Davey. 

' “David,” said Vesta mechanically, turning towards 
’the child. 

“What a beautiful dress she’s got on,” commented 
Davey as he looked from Louise to Vesta; but he 
made no movement to go nearer; and gradually 
edging away he stood at length with the protecting 
arm of Louise about him, gazing with wide eyes at 
Vesta. 

“Won’t you kiss me, David?” asked Vesta at 
length, holding her hands out towards the boy. 

Davey hesitated a moment, and Louise clung 
closely to him as if afraid to let him leave her hands. 
He glanced at her doubtfully as he felt her arms 
tighten around him, realizing that for some reason 
he was being required to stay where he was. 

“Are you cross with her?” Davey hazarded after 
a moment. 

“No! No! ” exclaimed Louise involuntarily letting 
go her hold, and ashamed a little of her action. 

“Aren’t you?” questioned Davey, surprised. 

“No, darling,” said Louise in a confident voice;’ 
and Davey seeing Vesta’s arms still held out to him 
and feeling Louise loose hers, went shyly across to 
Vesta and put up his face to be kissed. But Vesta 
did not kiss him; instead she took both his hands 
and gave him a penetrating look which Davey 


SACRIFICE 255 

returned at first and then becoming embarrassed, 
turned his head away. 

“It's my birthday to-day,” he said at length. 

“Is it?” answered Vesta, her hand trailing gently 
down his curls. “Many happy returns.” 

“And I’ve got a steel Eiffel Tower,” said Davey, 
speaking very fast in his excitement and looking at 
Vesta again, he pulled away his hands. “As high 
as this,” he continued, stretching his arms to their 
utmost height. 

“You are a lucky boy,” said Vesta, whilst Louise 
listened, apprehensive of what Davey might say 
next. 

“My father gave it me,” continued Davey. “He 
came home to-day; and we are going a long, long 
way to-night . . .” Louise started up, and inter¬ 
rupting Davey, took him by the hand. 

“Davey,” she said, leading him to his bedroom and 
opening the door, “go to Henriette, there’s a good 
boy”; and Vesta, who had momentarily lost her 
composure, pulled herself together and watched 
Louise as she shut Davey’s bedroom door behind 
her. 

There was a silence as Louise resumed her seat 
on the chaise longue; and her eyes as she stared 
blindly before her were dull with her silent suffering. 

“I envy you,” said Vesta speaking as one to whom 
a miracle had been shown. “If I had a little one. 


256 SURRENDER! 

like that life would have been so different.” She 
paused as she called to memory the emptiness that 
had been hers. “But now I have seen him,” she 
continued suddenly, turning towards Louise in a 
resolute manner, “I can’t understand how you could 
for a moment take such a risk with the boy.” 

“Risk?” reiterated Louise, startled from her 
thoughts. “What do you say? I am always careful, 
I would not take a risk with the boy.” 

“You are now,” said Yesta emphatically. “I’ve 
shown you what a risk you are taking. Can’t you 
realize what you are doing and to what you are ex¬ 
posing him? I shudder to think of the name people 
will call him!” 

“No! No!” exclaimed Louise, putting her hands 
in front of her eyes as if to blot out the picture Vesta 
had called up. Vesta felt that she had gone far 
enough; for pity’s sake the end must come. 

“Only you and I can prevent it,” she said, “I am 
willing to do my part,” she paused and looked at 
Louise. “Are you willing to do yours?” 

Louise hesitated, afraid to answer; all was to be 
taken away from her, her boy, her lover and lastly 
her art. She must stand alone, till death should be 
merciful. 

“You will do your part,” she answered at length, 
drawing a deep breath. “You will say to David 


SACRIFICE 257 

“Bring to me your boy and I will make a man of 
him.” 

Vesta glanced towards the door of Davey’s bed¬ 
room. 

“Yes,” she said, “I will try my very best to make 
him love me.” 

Louise arose and came towards Vesta. 

“He will! He will, madame!” she exclaimed. “I 
came home excited,” she continued, “I thought only 
of myself; but you are right; if I am to be happy, 
my boy must pay for it.” Louise turned away again 
and her voice quivered. “You bring me to my 
senses, madame . . . I . . .” 

Vesta, feeling the sorrow of Louise, held out a 
hand towards her. “Don’t thank me,” she interrupted 
gently, conscious of the irony of Louise trying to 
thank her for taking away all she wanted from life. 

Louise pulled herself together with an effort. 

“His father,” she said in a hesitating voice, “will 
come soon: we were going away to-night; but I 
will tell him to take the boy to you.” She paused 
a moment and then continued wistfully, “I shall see 
him no more.” 

Vesta started forward. “No,” she exclaimed 
protesting, “you must come to see little David; you 
can’t . . .” 

But Louise held up her hand and interrupted her; 
now that she had made up her mind she saw the 


258 


SURRENDER! 


future very clearly: it was to be everything or noth¬ 
ing; since it could not be everything—it had to be 
nothing. 

“It is better,” said Louise; “I . . . should be in 
the way; it would be natural for him to turn to me. 
It would not be fair to you or right for the boy. He 
would not know what to do between us. He could 
not love you as a good mother deserves to be loved.” 

“You may rest easy in your mind,” answered 
Vesta earnestly, “I will care for your boy as if he 
were my own.” She held out her hand to Louise as 
one who gives a pledge, and Louise, hesitating an 
instant only, took it in her own. The die was cast 
and the bond given. 

Vesta, gently letting go the hand of Louise, picked 
up her opera cloak from the chair and gathered it 
about her shoulders whilst Louise looked on in 
silence. 

“Of course,” said Vesta, suddenly calling to mind 
the ball, “I shan’t expect you to dance to-night.” 

“Dance!” the word tumbled through the blank¬ 
ness in Louise’s brain; “if you dance it would be 
your last . . .” Gavron had said to her; here was 
the way out for her. Death was at hand to lead her 
away from the sorrow of the years, and grief could 
not follow her to the grave. Kind Death, her only 
friend! 

“Dance to-night?” answered Louise. “I will not 


SACRIFICE 


259 


disappoint/’ she hesitated a moment, “the mother 
of my boy/’ she said smiling bravely, “I will come.” 

She held out her hand once more for Vesta to 
take; and opening the door for her, watched her go 
down the stairs. 

The hour which David had vouchsafed to her had 
passed, and in that time the promise of life had 
turned to the promise of Death. 


XI 


A MOTHER S HEART 


FTER Vesta's departure Louise, sitting down 



fk wearily, looked blankly at the dressing case 
with its tumbled contents, and the other evidence of 
her proposed departure, which was now a thing of 
the past. As she stared in front of her, she tried 
to comfort herself with the thought that matters 
had after all only arranged themselves in the way 
she had herself proposed at the beginning; but the 
comfort was cold. Her love for David had needed 
only the encouragement he himself had unwittingly 
given it, to rise from its sleeping place where it had 
lain, and become the great passion it had been when 
first they met. She had almost nerved herself to 
the sacrifice of Davey when David had made his 
confession; but the intervening hours had added to 
her burden by placing David almost within her arms 
again, only to snatch him away at the moment 
when she had been certain of his presence for the 
rest of her life. 

These two blows, delivered at the same moment, 
turned her thoughts to her promise made to Vesta 
to dance that night: Gavron had been so emphatic 
that any further dancing on her part would be 


260 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


261 


fatal: and when life was merciless, death must be 
merciful. She had assured the boy’s future; she had 
not dragged down by any action of hers the reputa¬ 
tion of David; there remained at last, as it seemed 
to her, only herself about whom to think; and 
Henriette’s hurried entrance did not cause her even 
to look round, so dead was her mind already to the 
happenings about her. 

“Your trunk is packed, madame,” said Henriette 
in a breathless voice; “and the little one is dressed, 
but he is so tired; I have put him to sleep again on 
the bed until Monsieur David arrives.” 

Louise made no sign of having heard her, but 
continued to gaze straight in front of her seeing 
nothing. Henriette, her remark unanswered, came 
slowly towards her. 

“What is the matter, madame?” she asked 
anxiously. 

“I am not going,” answered Louise without look¬ 
ing around. 

“Not going?” echoed Henriette. 

“Mrs. Anson-Pond,” said Louise in a toneless 
voice, “is a good woman, and she will take my boy.” 
Henriette for the moment did not appreciate all that 
this answer of Louise’s meant, then realizing 
suddenly that Davey was going not to France with 
them, but to South Audley Street with Vesta; that 
David was not coming; and that Louise and she 


262 


SURRENDER! 


were alone, she exclaimed at length, shaking Louise’s 
shoulder in her excitement with her hand. 

“Take the boy away from me!” Louise paid no 
attention to Henriettas exclamation. 

“He goes with his father to-night,” she continued 
in the same weary, relentless voice, as if pleased to 
hurt herself. “Pack all his things at once.” 

Henriette remained motionless a moment, her 
brain refusing to comprehend. 

“His things ...” she repeated in aimless fashion. 

“His father comes,” continued Louise, “and he 
will not be ready.” 

Henriette became galvanized into life once more, 
thinking that Louise, worn out, had not fully 
realized what she had done. 

“You are right,” she answered decisively. “He 
will not be ready. His trunk will not be packed, and 
he will not be finished because I will not finish him. 
I hope he will never be finished,” she broke off 
abruptly, seeing her opposition made no impression 
upon Louise who vouchsafed to her not so much as 
a glance, and sobbed bitterly to herself. 

Abruptly, too, she ceased crying a moment later, 
and moving forward so that she stood in front of 
Louise, looked at her steadily a moment. 

“You know he goes,” she said in a harsh voice, 
“and you do not cry?” 

Louise made a very slight movement with her 


A MOTHER'S HEART 263 

head to show her impatience at Henriette's 
insistence. 

“You think," she answered, “that because I do not 
cry, I do not care," and her voice hardened a little 
as she went on. “Go take a lover, have a baby of 
your own and then you will understand why I do not 
cry"; and as Henriette remained looking down at 
her in an incredulous manner. “Is it not for his own 
good that the boy goes?" Louise asked. “Think of 
that, my girl." 

“But I don't want him to go," said Henriette, 
crying afresh. 

“And do I?" asked Louise, lifting her eyes to look 
at Henriette. 

For the first time, Henriette saw therein the dumb 
grief and pain of Louise, and softly as one who 
realizes herself to be in the presence of something 
she does not understand, but knows to be more 
powerful than herself, she crept from the room to 
pack Davey's few belongings. 

Hardly had she gone, however, when Louise 
became aware that the door of her boudoir had 
opened; but she made no sign that she had heard. 
David, who had entered, stopped abruptly in the 
doorway, looking around the room at its disarray, 
and letting his eyes dwell finally on Louise, whose 
back was turned to him. 

“Louise," he exclaimed at last, “we've only a few 


264 


SURRENDER! 


minutes and you’re not ready. We’ll miss the train! ” 

Louise rose slowly and came towards him, her 
eyes searching his face hungrily. 

“I am not going,” she vouchsafed in a low voice. 

David looked at her in astonishment. 

“Why not?” he asked. 

“Your wife has been here,” answered Louise 
slowly, taking hold of the lapel of his overcoat with 
her hand. 

David looked at her for a moment as if he had 
not understood. 

“My wife,” he repeated; and as Louise made no 
movement, he continued after a slight pause. “What 
did she say?” he asked, placing his hands upon her 
shoulders as if to steady her. 

“That we might go away, David,” answered 
Louise, “but she will not get a divorce.” 

A great feeling of bitterness arose in David at 
hearing Louise’s answer, bitterness against Vesta. 
Until this moment he had in spite of his words 
sympathized almost as much with Vesta as with 
Louise over the position which had arisen; but 
Vesta using such a weapon against him, and Vesta 
his wife were two totally different persons and the 
former alienated all his sympathies for the latter. 

“That’s her affair,” he replied roughly, realizing 
even as he said it that the whole complexion of their 
proposed flight had been altered. 


A MOTHER’S HEART 265 

“It is my affair also,” answered Louise gently. 

David made a movement of impatience. 

“I thought,” he said, “Vesta would be glad to get 
rid of me; that she didn’t care; I never thought she 
would deliberately refuse to divorce . . 

Louise held up her hand to interrupt him. 

“She does care,” she answered. “When you said 
last night you could not protect Davey without the 
help of your wife—I did not altogether understand 
you. But I do now: she has proved it to me—” 
Louise paused a moment and drawing away from 
him went slowly towards the fireplace. “It is quite 
true what you said; and you must take him not to 
Paris, but home with you.” 

David made an involuntary gesture of surprise. 
“To-night?” he exclaimed in an astonished voice. 
“Surely you . . .” 

“I promised your wife to ask you,” interrupted 
Louise, turning to face David again. 

David looked at her, not knowing what to say to 
this woman who could so sacrifice her own happiness 
for the benefit of her child, but before he could 
answer her, Louise went quickly into Davey s bed¬ 
room where Henriette was putting the last things 
into the tray of his trunk, and, taking no notice of 
her, went over to where Davey lay sleeping. After 
looking into his face for a brief moment, she gathered 
him into her arms and carried him into the boudoir 


266 


SURRENDER! 


where David stood as she had left him, watching the 
open door of Davey’s bedroom. 

“What are you going to do?” asked David, as he 
watched Louise seat herself and rock the child gently 
to and fro for fear she had awakened him. 

“I am going away,” answered Louise in a dull 
voice; and Davey at the sound of their voices opened 
his eyes. 

“There is so much I want to say to you,” said 
David, taking an impulsive step forward, but 
Louise noticing that Davey’s eyes were open, 
motioned him to be silent. 

“Be careful,” she answered, “the boy notices 
everything.” 

“Lm sleepy,” murmured Davey, as he moved his 
head upon Louise’s breast, and Louise gathered him 
further into her arms. 

“You’ll soon be in your little bed,” she said softly; 
and Davey closed his eyes again contentedly as 
Louise hummed gently to him. 

David watched Louise and the boy in silence, not 
daring to make any sound lest he might wake him 
again; and as he watched he realized what one 
moment of life had cost Louise, Yesta and himself. 
For that one moment which he in his uncaring 
selfishness had snatched from the span of time 
which was his, he had brought upon Louise a sorrow 
which life itself could not recompense. Blundering 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


267 


through the gateway of Romance, he had hit his 
head against the iron doorway of Reality. He saw 
the happy carefree girl in Paris as he had first met 
her; the girl of whom de Rillac had said ‘she is not 
like the others’; he saw himself who had not made 
her as the others but had from the very fineness of 
her nature made her more sorrowful than any of 
them; and more to be pitied. He saw himself, who 
had done all these things to be the only person upon 
whom God, Fate, or whoever moved the thoughts 
and actions of humanity had bestowed the blessing 
so much desired. Louise, the sufferer, she who had 
been wronged, deceived, and now at the last was to 
be left alone, had gained nothing from that God or 
Fate except the tears that were to come. 

Vainly as these thoughts crowded in upon him 
David strove to find some way out by which Louise 
might come into her kingdom. But the stilted 
arguments which he had used to Vesta echoed 
through his head; phrases unassailable whirled in 
his brain, and down at the bottom there remained 
the stone upon which this ghastly edifice was piled— 
‘He must do what was best for the child.’ 

Henriette moving with noiseless feet through the 
open door passed between David and Lcuise, bring¬ 
ing Davey’s cap that had been left behind. 

“His little cap,” she murmured, putting it down 


268 


SURRENDER! 


on the table, “he forgets it; and his trunk it is 
packed, and downstairs.” 

Louise looked up from Davey’s face on hearing 
Henriette’s voice. 

“You will take some rugs and make a little bed 
for him in the car,” she said. 

“In the car, madame,” repeated Henriette, in an 
unbelieving voice, hoping against hope that Louise 
and David had arranged to go to Paris and she would 
not be parted from Davey. 

“Yes, in the car,” repeated Louise firmly. “Be 
sure,” she continued, looking at Davey’s sleeping 
form, “he is well covered; make a rug like the 
blanket of a bed. Take all the back seat, his father 
will not mind.” 

“Yes, madame,” answered Henriette in a hesitat¬ 
ing voice, and after glancing for a moment at David 
in hope that he would even now put an end to it, 
she went out. Henriette’s look caused David’s 
emotions to get the better of him, and throwing 
aside all thoughts of the boy, he started towards 
Louise. 

“Lolo,” he exclaimed, “I’ve kept silent for the 
boy’s sake, but . . .” 

b L ouise held up her hand and motioned him to 
silence. 

“Do you want to do a great thing for me?” she 
whispered. 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


269 


“Anything for you/’ said David. 

“Then say nothing,” answered Louise simply, 
“just good-bye.” 

“I can’t go without a word,” replied David 
desperately. “Can’t we find another way?” 

Louise looked up in astonishment. 

“Another way?” she reiterated. 

“A better way for you,” answered David. “It’s 
one thing to make plans; it is another thing to carry 
them out.” 

“There is no other safe way—for him,” answered 
Louise as her eyes returned to Davey. 

“But I feel as if I were stealing the boy away 
from you,” objected David. 

“Did I not ask you to take him?” whispered 
Louise, and David began now to fight in earnest 
against the very thing which he had himself started 
to try and obtain that morning. 

“It seems so cruel to me,” he answered, “the little 
fellow is nestling so close to you—I can’t do it, I 
am taking everything and giving nothing.” 

Louise waited until his outburst had finished, 
fearful lest he should wake Davey. 

“You are doing much for the boy,” she said in 
answer; not to be shaken now by any of the argu¬ 
ments which she had herself used to Vesta. 

“I’m trying to accept,” replied David desperately, 
“what you have settled . . 


270 


SURRENDER! 


“You must accept," interrupted Louise, “for the 
boy's sake." 

“I can't," said David, “I can't walk out of this 
house in this unfeeling way; put the boy back in 
his own bed," he pleaded, “and we'll go on together 
‘till Death do us part'; we can take that bit of the 
marriage service to ourselves any way." 

Louise who saw clearly what such a life would 
mean to David, and how bitterly he would regret it, 
felt an overwhelming pride within herself that he 
should be willing to throw over everything for her 
sake in that way. 

“If he could hear you," she said looking at Davey, 
“he would be as proud of his father, as I am." 

“I’ll call Henriette," answered David, acting on 
the spur on the moment, “and she can put the boy 
back in his own bed." But he had barely started 
to walk to the door when Louise called him back. 

“David," she said softly, “do you remember one 
day in my little room in Paris you put your hands on 
my shoulders and you said to me . . ." she paused, 
“What did you say to me then, David?" she asked. 

David looked at her earnestly. “I said," he 
answered in a deliberate voice, “what I like about 
you, little girl, is that you’re honest." 

Louise drew a deep breath and rising with Davey 
clasped in her arms she came towards him. 

“I'm glad," she whispered, “you have remembered 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


271 


that; but you have forgotten this, that your wife 
has treated me as a human being and that must 
never be forgotten. Woman to woman we pledged 
our word to make the wrong right, so that my boy 
could hold his head up like every man. One woman 
has kept her word; do you ask me to break mine?” 

“It’s so one-sided,” argued David vainly. 

“I shall go,” answered Louise softly, “but your 
wife will mother my little one”; and bending down 
she kissed Davey as he slept in her arms. 

“And the man?” asked David, his voice full of 
bitterness against himself. 

“Will do his duty to his child,” continued Louise 
gazing proudly up into David’s face. “That is the 
monument you will build to my memory.” 

David saw at last that further argument was 
useless; they had decided, Louise and Vesta between 
them, and he must bow to their decision. 

As Louise came slowly towards him, the beauty 
of her and of the boy in her arms overwhelmed him. 

“I shall always see you as you are now,” he said, 
“with the boy in your arms ” 

Louise pressed the boy closer to her breast. 

“You gave him to me,” she answered softly, “to 
you I owe the best years of my life; beautiful years 
—with him. It is finished—I give him back to you,” 
and as she said that, she held out the boy towards 
David, who took him in his arms. Hold him 


272 


SURRENDER! 


close,” she cautioned, as she turned for a moment to 
pick up Davey’s cap from the table on which 
Henriette had lain it, “and remember,” she con¬ 
tinued, her voice husky with her sorrow, as she gave 
him the cap and pushed him gently towards the 
door, “when you are kind to him, you are kind to 
me.” 

As David stood waiting she stooped down quickly 
and nestled her head a moment against the boy; 
then her will-power reasserting itself she led David 
gently towards the stairs and standing in the door¬ 
way watched him descend until he had passed 
beyond her vision. Resolute still, she closed the 
door of the boudoir upon him and Davey, shutting 
out with that movement all the happiness and the 
joy of her existence. 

Slowly and with faltering steps she made her way 
with difficulty to the window and drawing aside the 
curtain with uncertain hand, she saw David place 
the boy in the car, noticed the little trunk upon the 
top, heard the door close, and watched the headlights 
gradually recede as the car bore Davey away from 
her towards the future which she had made secure 
for him. 

But with the departure of the car vanished also 
her self-control; a great feeling of despair welled up 
within her, and with a cry of anguish she sank to 
the floor, convulsively clutching the curtains and 


A MOTHER’S HEART 273 

sobbing as if her heart would break. No Henriette, 
who herself was too overcome, came to comfort her 
in her hour of utmost need, and her forlorn figure 
remained alone. 

So Louise stayed until, exhausted by her crying, 
she roused herself to fulfil the purpose which had 
remained dormant at the back of her mind during 
her conversation with David, and of which she had 
decided to tell him nothing. “What will you do?" 
he had asked her, and as she thought of this ques¬ 
tion, she laughed hysterically to herself. “I shall 
dance,” she whispered to herself, “and per¬ 
haps . . .?” 

Slowly she arose from her position on the floor; 
the exceeding pallor of her cheeks had given way to 
a dangerous flush, and her eyes, feverish in their 
excitement, sought the room for some sign of 
Henriette. 

“Henriette! Henriette!” she called; and on 
Henriette slowly entering, Louise began struggling 
to undo the back of the gown she was wearing. 

“My dancing dress,” she exclaimed, “quick, 

quick!” 

Henriette stood indecisively for a moment. 

“But, madame,” she stammered, “the doctor 

said . . . .” . 

“Do not talk,” interrupted Louise, throwing her 


274 SURRENDER! 

gown on the floor. “My dress—I must dance—I 
must dance.” 

Henriette took the dress from the cupboard in her 
bedroom and endeavored to fasten it upon Louise 
who kept moving this way and that in her 
impatience to be dressed and away from this room— 
this house of torture. 

Scarcely had Henriette finished doing up her 
dress, and Louise before the mirror was still 
feverishly fastening the wreath of flowers on her 
dark head, when the door opened and Gavron 
entered. 

“I have come, as I promised,” he said cheerily, 
“to see how you are to-night,” and whilst Louise 
who had forgotten that he had been coming, picked 
up the handglass and tried to gain time by pretend¬ 
ing to finish arranging her hair before answering 
him, Henriette went out and left them together. 

Gavron stood looking at her until she put the 
mirror down, and, on Louise facing him directly for 
the first time, noticed that she was laboring under 
a great excitement. His face assumed a look of 
grave concern, and Louis seeing the kindliness of 
his nature felt once again the overwhelming desire 
to tell him everything, just as she had experienced 
before when Davey was about to be born. 

“Gavvy,” she said after a little pause, “my boy’s 
father-—he is David Anson-Pond!” 


A MOTHER'S HEART 275 

Gavron who knew the Anson-Ponds quite well 
looked at her unbelievingly for a moment. 

“Anson-Pond!” he exclaimed at length,—“the 
blackguard!” 

“Do not say anything against him,” interrupted 
Louise in a pleading voice. “You must not be sorry 
—I am not,” she added a little hysterically, “he has 
taken the boy home, Gavvy, just before you came. 
He will do everything for him; he thinks only of 
him.” 

Gavron looked at her gravely. “What of you?” he 
asked at length. “I am quite sure the boy will be 
looked after, he is in his father’s care, but I am 
thinking of the mother; she is in my care.” 

“Oh,” answered Louise, an almost guilty expres¬ 
sion overshadowing her face, “I can look after my¬ 
self.” 

Gavron looked at her up and down in silence. 

“I don’t think you can,” he answered gently. 
“What’s this dancing dress for?” 

Louise turned her head away from him so as not 
to look into his face. 

“Why do you turn away from me?” he continued. 

“The light,” answered Louise, in a hesitating 
voice, “it is my eyes.” 

“You are going to dance to-night?” asked Gavron 
who saw clearly the purpose in her mind, as Louise 
turned to face him again. 


276 


SURRENDER! 


“Yes, I am going to dance to-night,” she answered 
defiantly. “Have not all these people been kind to 
me? Is not Mrs. Anson-Pond going to take my 
boy into her house and when she asks me for a little 
favor of dancing—is it not natural I should dance 
for her?” 

But Gavron continued to look gravely at her. 
“That’s not your reason,” he said, “you don’t care a 
damn for those people.” 

“You are right,” Louise replied, still hoping to 
deceive Gavron. “I dance because I wish to—just 
to please myself.” 

“Oh, no,” said Gavron, “you are not that kind of 
woman.” 

Louise, becoming the more reckless as Gavron be¬ 
came the more imperturbable, laughed hysterically. 

“I am what I am,” she answered, “that French 
woman who does not care that,” and she snapped 
her fingers, “for anything but excitement, pleasure, 
Life!—I love it! I love it! and I will have it if I 
die for it.” 

“And you will die for it,” replied Gavron unruffled 
by her outburst. 

Louise laughed at him derisively and Gavron con¬ 
tinued— 

“Ever since last night your heart has been under 
a continual strain. Your vital need is rest and 


A MOTHER’S HEART 277 

sleep. Your life is hanging by a thread; if you dance 
to-night you will break that thread.” 

Louise, for whom Gavron’s words made the 
possibility of death a certainty, felt a relief at the 
thought that there was to be no chance of her 
surviving the dance. 

“To go like that,” she answered softly, “has been 
my dream. I will die as I have lived—with the 
bright lights—the music and the laughing people 
all around me.” 

Gavron took her roughly by the arm; his worst 
fears were true. “So that’s why you want to dance,” 
he said harshly. “You mean to put an end to it 
to-night.” 

“Why not to-night?” answered Louise hysterically. 
“Life is a punishment to me now!” 

“You have much to live for,” replied Gavron, 
“much to be thankful for.” 

Louise dragged her arm frantically away from his 
grasp. 

“Thankful!” she exclaimed, “the heart and soul 
are gone out of my life. Davey, has only gone a few 
minutes, and already my eyes are tired looking for 
him. I am aching for my boy—my brain is full of 
him—I hear him calling 'Mother, Mother.’—I put 
out my hands,” she paused and stretched out her 
arms towards Gavron. “Give me back my boy,” she 
cried. 


278 


SURRENDER! 


Gavron, much moved, took her outstretched 
hands and patted them gently in an effort to comfort 
her, as Louise continued hysterically-- 

“I did not mean to take him back, Gavvy! I did 
not mean it! But you say I must live; I cannot! 
I cannot live—I must go—why do you try to stop 
me? I am nothing to you; only one more patient 
you cannot save.” 

“That’s not true, Louise,” answered Gavron 
gently. 

“Why do you fight so hard for my life?” ques¬ 
tioned Louise. “It is not love! You are the only 
man I know who has not tried to make love to me.” 

Gavron let her arms drop to her side. “Because,” 
he answered, “I’m the only man you know who 
means it.” 

Louise on Gavron’s confession looked at him for 
a moment in astonishment—her purpose forgotten. 

“But Gavvy,” she stammered, “you . . ” 

Gavron held up his hand to interrupt her . . . 
he had meant to keep in the background his personal 
feelings towards Louise, for he knew that Louise was 
not the woman who could ever give her love twice. 

“I am not going to talk about myself,” he inter¬ 
jected. “I can think of nothing but you and the 
splendid thing you have done for your boy. Don’t 
rob it of its beauty,” he pleaded earnestly, “don’t 
cast a shadow over the little one you love so much. 


A MOTHER’S HEART 279 

You think he will not know, and that you stand 
alone,” and Gavron shook his head at her kindly. 
“No human being is isolated. Whatever you do is 
felt by those who love you. If you carry out your 
insane purpose to-night, the little fellow will know 
it ... in his dreams ... he will know ... he 
will know.” Gavron paused a moment and noticed 
that Louise had become quieter. “But if you have 
the courage to live,” he continued, “you will be away 
from him, but never separated. There is a tie 
between you which distance cannot break, and you 
will always be in spiritual touch with him. Your 
love, Louise, pure and unselfish, will keep an invisible 
watch over the boy—you will be his moral influence. 
Would you deprive him of that?” 

Louise, her head bowed, made no attempt to 
answer Gavron’s question. 

“Your work has only begun,” continued Gavron 
gently; “it is your duty to see it through and to live 
as long as God wills you to live. I know what it 
means for you to face it now, but time tempers 
everything and peace comes from where one expects 
it least. You will face it, won’t you?” 

Louise, whose cheeks had lost the dangerous flush 
which Gavron had noticed on his arrival, and whose 
breathing was still as one who had passed through 
a storm of emotion in the outer seas to enter the 


280 


SURRENDER! 


quiet of reflection in the harbor, thought deeply 
of Gavron’s words . . . 

“Gawy,” she answered at length, “if I don't 
dance ... if I live . . . will you write to me of 
Davey?” 

“Yes! yes!” answered Gavron quickly. 

“Then,” said Louise, her eyes shining and her 
heart uplifted by the knowledge that though far 
away, there would still remain a link to bind her to 
Davey, “I will live for my little one.” 

Gavron took her hands reassuringly in his but did 
not speak, and Louise closed her eyes as though 
trying to visualize the future. 

At length in a voice that was faint she broke the 
silence and unfolded her plans to him. 

“I shall go back to France,” she said. “In the 
valley of the Rhone; it is beautiful and perhaps 
peace will come to me there,” and dropping her 
hands with a sigh she moved towards her bedroom. 

Her dancing dress strangely out of keeping with 
her weary face, Louise paused for a moment to look 
back at Gavron’s kindly face, and waving her hand 
to him with something of her old spirit, she left him. 


4 

? i i 


PART in 































XII 


SANCTUARY 

I N the South of France where abound so many 
charming and quiet villages tucked cosily away 
from the turmoil and disturbance of life, there lies 
in the valley of the Rhone, not far from Avignon, 
the village of Duquesnil. Any motorist travelling 
towards the Pyrenees or crossing to the Riviera 
would pass through that village almost before he 
had become aware he had entered it, and casting a 
wary eye over the wind-screen for any stray chickens 
would notice in all probability nothing beyond the 
avenue of poplars that point their dark fingers to the 
sky. Yet at the eastern end of that village there 
peeps from a neighboring hill the red roof of a 
small but imposing house; the carriage drive of 
which sweeps down to the main road below, inter¬ 
secting it at the point where any motorist would 
have leant back once more in his leather cushioned 
seat, his anxiety concerning chickens having 
vanished from his mind. 

Such a house is looked upon by the simple peasant 
folk of the village as a chateau, and is usually 
occupied by the rich man of the village who hap-; 
283 


284 SURRENDER! 

pened to be in this case the Mayor of Duquesnil, a 
worthy and solid figure who had retired from a profi¬ 
table business in wines and spent his time in direct¬ 
ing the small civic duties that fell to his lot or in 
gossiping in the Cafe des Espagnols, which, as the 
only cafe in Duquesnil, reflected the daily life of 
the villagers. But the Mayor of Duquesnil did not 
live at the chateau, nor did the Cafe des Espagnols 
have the honor of entertaining the owner thereof 
with a bock, a vermouth cassis or a grenadine and 
seltzer. 

The owner's absence, however, did not prevent 
her name forming the main part of the daily gossip 
which was bandied above the red tiled floor of the 
cafe. 

“She did not go for a drive this morning,” 
remarked Pierre Ballot, the local miller, as at twelve 
o’clock he filled up his vermouth cassis with a dash 
of seltzer, “it is unusual.” 

The other inmates of the cafe did not trouble to 
inquire from Pierre who “she” was; they had all 
known her by sight these eighteen years; “La Belle 
Dame of the Chateau.” Ever since old Gregoire—he 
was dead these five years, poor old man—had told 
the news that he had seen the new owner of the 
chateau; ever since Monsieur Poingon, the station- 
master, had tottered in perspiring from every pore 
and exclaiming that no lady should be permitted to 


SANCTUARY 


285 


have more than five trunks, and that this one had 
had eighteen; ever since Monsieur le Maire had 
called upon her and returned to tell his envious 
listeners that she was more beautiful than he had 
ever dreamed a woman could be. 

For eighteen years “La Belle Dame of the Cha¬ 
teau” had lived amongst these people, but they 
scarcely saw her, and few of them had ever talked to 
her. 

“What would you?” Monsieur le Maire had said 
after he had called one day, by the unorthodox 
means of going round to the verandah of the chateau 
instead of knocking at the front door, to find the 
lady in tears, and that “dragon of a servant,” as he 
called the gray haired stoutish woman who was her 
companion, had whisked him out of the gate and 
into the drive again before he knew where he was; 
“She must have had a great deal of trouble, our 
beautiful lady of the chateau. She is a Parisienne to 
the tips of her dainty toes, she does not bury her¬ 
self in Duquesnil for nothing. No, my friends,” and 
he put his finger to his nose, did the worthy mayor, 
“I am certain,” he had continued, “she is a great 
lady who has lost her money through some fool of 
a man—he, her husband, is probably a gambler at 
Monte Carlo or somewhere; it is all very plain.” 

“Faiseur d’histoires” his wife had said to him when 


286 SURRENDER! 

she heard the story, “but how, my clever one, did 
you know she was married?” 

“Parbleu” retorted the worthy Mayor, playfully, 
“she looks as unhappy as you, my chicken; only 
unmarried women, or grass widows look happy.” 
And his wife called him “bonne bete” and made a 
moue that might have signified anything. 

Monsieur le cure, old Father Villein, saw perhaps 
more of the lady of the chateau than any of the 
other village celebrities, and sometimes in the long 
winter evenings when the wood fire crackled in the 
grate, whilst he sipped the wine of the country and 
sampled the dainty cakes sent up by the wife of the 
Patisder, he would let his tongue linger upon her 
mysterious personality as he talked to the local 
hay merchant who played backgammon with him on 
some such nights. 

“It is sad, my friend,” he said once to the hay 
merchant, “figure to yourself a woman with scarcely 
a wrinkle in her face, and yet her hair grows gray.” 

The hay merchant had paused with the dice box 
in his hand. “Gray,” he had answered, “I remember 
when she first came here, her hair was dark as a 
blackbird’s wing: Mon Dieu, she was a vision— 1 
I La Belle Dame of the Chateau, but that would be 
five years ago now,” and he shook the dice box 
vigorously and spilled the dice upon the board. 

“Well, my friend,” returned the cure, “it is as I 


SANCTUARY 287 

have said; mark my word, she will be a white-haired 
old woman next year at this time.” 

“It is very sad, these gray hairs,” said the hay 
merchant, “in one so young; I do not like to see a 
woman grow old, any more than I like to eat an 
old chicken.” 

The cure smiled gently and nibbled his cake. “It 
is difficult, one cannot support it,” he answered, 
“to grow old suddenly when one has nothing to do 
but think.” 

“Mon Dieu,” said the hay maker, “I work from 
morning till night, and look at my head, not a gray 
hair, and I wager I could give La Belle Dame of the 
Chateau ten years, for I am nigh on fifty-five.” 

“Thou hast not known sorrow,” answered the cure 
slowly, “it burrows, my friend, like a rat in your fat 
grain stacks; starting at the bottom, hidden from 
view; it gnaws silently, and day when thou goest for 
the grain, thou findest the heart of it is empty.” 

And the hay maker nodded. “It is true,” he 
answered;“but tell me, monsieur le cure” he con¬ 
tinued, “what is this ‘rat’ that ‘gnaws’?” 

The cure looked up sharply, and his bushy eye¬ 
brows met above his clean shaven face. 

“Would you that I tell the village, my friend, of 
your adventure last Friday week?” answered the 
cure . 

“Mon Dim , no,” said the hay maker fearfully* 


288 


SURRENDER! 


“I told you in confession, monsieur le cure 
wouldn’t . . and the cure held up his hand. 

“Thou hast answered thine own question, my 
friend,” he said “concerning the sorrow of La Belle 
Dame of the Chateau.” 

The cure was right, for when the hay maker filled 
his granaries the next year following that conversa¬ 
tion, the hair of the lady of the chateau had grown 
white, though her face remained unlined and as 
beautiful as before. 

“It is the gladness of the soul,” Pierre had said 
with a touch of poetry foreign to his nature, “that 
keeps her face so young.” 

“It is the sadness of the body,” returned Monsieur 
le Maire, “that has turned her hair so white.” 

So it was she had lived among them, La Dame of 
the Chateau, for eighteen years with her companion 
in the red roofed house which looked down upon the 
high road. The traffic of the world had passed her 
house and lost itself beyond; the current of the river 
had borne its burdens onward toward the sea, but 
the backwater of Duquesnil glimmered solitary, even 
awesome in its serenity, and no one appeared to 
throw a pebble into its depths whereby the resultant 
eddy could carry another lingerer back once more 
to an artery of life. 

Every day on fine mornings she would drive with 
her faithful companion along the country lanes and 


SANCTUARY 


289 


after an hour or so the gates upon the high road 
would be closed once more; the lady of the chateau 
had returned and would not be seen again that day; 
but to-day, although the morning was fine, she had 
not left for her accustomed drive, and Pierre had 
been surprised at not seeing her. 

But to-day was an unusual one for the lady of the 
chateau and her companion; for the postman had 
brought her a letter that morning which had stirred 
the memories of all that lay buried in her heart and 
caused her thoughts to fly away upon the backs of 
the swiftly moving clouds which were speeding west¬ 
wards towards England. 

“Henriette,” she had called as she sat upon her 
accustomed chair in the verandah taking her coffee 
and rolls, “what do you think, Henriette, a letter 
from . . . Whom do you think? make a guess who.” 

Henriette shuffled out from the dining-room 
through the French windows, and took Deloryse to 
task immediately. 

“Madame is excited,” was her answer, “it is very 
bad; Madame should keep calm always; remember 
what Doctor Gavron told you when you left Eng¬ 
land, ‘Don’t forget/ he said, ‘a quiet life, very quiet 
with no excitement, and you will live as long as most 
people; excitement and pouf! it is finished/ 
Madame should not excite herself.” 

“But, Henriette,” cried Louise, her face flushed 


290 


SURRENDER! 


and her hands nervously turning the open pages of 
the letter, “this letter, it is from Gavvy.” 

“I saw it, the English postmark,” replied 
Henriette suavely. 

“And he is coming to see me,” continued Deloryse, 
“think of that, Henriette, he has taken a vacation 
and is motoring down the Rhone valley; he says 
‘he is going to rout me out/ I am not certain what 
that means, but he comes, Gavvy . . . and that is 
all that matters.” 

“I didn’t know Madame wished so much to see 
the good doctor,” said Henriette, “Madame is in 
the best of health.” 

“Not to see him as a doctor, my Henriette,” 
answered Deloryse, “but as a friend, a great friend, 
and who knows, Henriette! he may bring me news 
of my little one.” 

“Little one!” repeated Henriette, “the little one 
must be a man of twenty-three now!” 

“It is true,” said Louise, almost sadly, “the years, 
they just fly; but Gavvy will know what I am 
craving to know; all about Davey. You want to 
know too, n’est ce pas?” 

Henriette plucked a dead rose from the cluster 
which climbed the red wall that ran along the 
verandah. 

“For myself,” she answered, “I have forgotten. I 
do not want to know.” She paused and then con- 


SANCTUARY 


291 


itinued passionately, “Why should I care to know; 
that woman, she has wrecked our lives; and him—• 
her husband—too. Madame is generous, but I . . . 
I do not forget! ... I have nothing for which to 
be thankful; they took little Davey away; they 
nearly killed you and they have sent no news of 
your boy!” 

“Ah! Henriette,” Louise answered, “was it not 
agreed that I should give him up and never see him 
again? It was hard to bear but I think perhaps it 
is better to cut oneself away altogether and remain 
in the dark than to watch a faint glimmer; a will-o’- 
the-wisp, which one may never catch. But, Gavvy, 
he has sent us news from time to time, and now 
he is coming to see me; it is a day of days; 
Henriette, you must not forget that. Besides, my 
friend, it is wrong to speak ill of Mr. Anson-Pond; 
the dead are not here to answer.” 

“It is true,” Henriette replied, “I had forgotten 
for the moment he was dead.” 

“You had forgotten!” Louise exclaimed in an 
astonished voice, “Don’t you remember the doctor’s 
letter ... it will be five years ago the twenty-fifth 
of next month; poor David ... the father of my 
son.” 

“But she still lives,” interrupted Henriette, “I 
may speak ill of her; what right has she to the boy, 
now that his father is dead . . .” 


292 


SURRENDER! 


“Ah, Henriette,” interrupted Deloryse, “I see you 
will never accept it; you love me too much; but I—I 
did what was best for the boy; and I rest content, 
and you also will rest content, heinf To-day whilst 
the Doctor is here, you will not say anything to spoil 
my afternoon, Henriette; we must not show him our 
secret hearts. We will show him, Henriette, that 
we are happy, that we have the courage to live our 
own lives, and that we do not envy those others, 
their happiness. It is so, is it not, hein?” 

“Madame is very good/' replied Henriette, “she 
has a heart of gold; for myself, I cannot speak with 
joy—I will say nothing 5 '; and with that she shrugged 
her shoulders and turned away towards the French 
windows . . . 

Three days after the receipt of the letter, Louise 
waiting impatiently sat in the verandah, her head 
resting upon her hand. All these years she had been 
resigned, but ever since the letter was delivered she 
had become restless and eager for the sound of a 
motor car swinging up the drive from the main 
road; at last it had come, the gates upon the high 
road opened with a clang and the wheels of a gray 
touring car flung the loose pebbles upon the drive 
hither and thither as it moved towards the house. 

Louise rose expectantly to her feet, but hardly 
had she stood up before Henriette came bustling 
round the comer- 


SANCTUARY 


293 


“Madame,” she exclaimed, “the car . , 

“How do I look?” exclaimed Louise hurriedly. 
“Tell me exactly, Henriette ... I must put my 
hair in order—and my lace, it is rumpled”; and her 
hands fluttered nervously with the lace at her neck 
of her pale mauve gown. 

“Madame,” said Henriette, “it is a doctor who 
calls, he does not care for dress.” 

“Ah! my Henriette,” answered Louise, “he is a 
man ... if I am not well dressed ... he will think 
I am not well.” Louise moved quickly into the 
dining room as the clanging of the bell announced 
Dr. Gavron’s arrival. 

“Do not let him see me,” she exclaimed, “until I 
am dressed; I shall not be long.” 

“Do not walk so quickly, Madame,” answered 
Henriette anxiously following Deloryse into the 
dining room, “I will talk to the doctor until you 
come.” 

Deloryse paused, her hand upon the knob of the 
door. “But do not tell him,” she whispered, “that 
I dress; just say I am resting, and then when I 
come and find him here, I shall seem so surprised.” 

Henriette smiled as a mother does over the 
vagaries of a child. “Madame is still young, it is 
true,” she answers as she watched Deloryse lightly 
mounting the stairs to her bedroom, and after hear- 


294 


SURRENDER! 


ing the bedroom door shut walked slowly to open 
the front door for the doctor. 

“Will you please come this way, doctor/' Henriette 
said, as she stood aside to let Doctor Gavron pass. 

Doctor Gavron had aged very little in the inter¬ 
vening years; still a well set-up and smartly dressed 
man, he entered the house at Duquesnil as he had. 
often entered Louise’s house in London, smiling a 
little, with his kindly eyes bent upon the upturned 
face of Henriette. The hair around his ears had 
turned gray and the lines upon his face were more 
numerous and deeper than in the old days, but he 
was Doctor Gavron of London, unmistakably. 

“Still on guard, Henriette?” he exclaimed cheerily 
as he dropped his gloves, cap and overcoat upon the 
little oak seat in the hall. 

“The doctor is very kind,” said Henriette, as she 
closed the door after him. “How are you feeling 
after your terrible journey across the channel?” 

“I love the terrible channel; and anyway it is 
three days since I crossed; plenty of time in which 
to recover,” answered Doctor Gavron. “And how 
is Madame?” he asked anxiously as Henriette piloted 
him to the verandah. 

“Madame is marvellous,” answered Henriette, 
“thanks be to le bon Dieu” 

Gavron smiled. 

“But no thanks to you, eh?” he answered, “but 


SANCTUARY 295 

that’s splendid news. She got my letter, of course, 
and is expecting me?” 

“She has talked of nothing else, Monsieur le 
Docteur” answered Henriette, “since your letter 
arrived. But Madame is resting.” As she said this, 
Henriette cast an uneasy glance around her, half 
expecting Louise to pop out from some concealed 
corner to confound her statement. 

Gavron rubbed his hands and smiled. 

“I am glad she is taking care of herself,” he said, 
“tell me, was Madame very excited when she 
received my letter telling her I was coming?” 

“Excited,” replied Henriette, “she was, how do 
you say, delirious . . . you remember you said it 
was bad for her to be excited; you have broken your 
own prescription, Monsieur le Docteur” 

“A doctor’s privilege,” laughed Gavron, and then 
he continued gravely, “I was afraid my coming might 
upset her; the old associations and everything.” 

Henriette leant forward towards the doctor and 
whispered confidentially, “You need not be afraid 
of that, there is no sadness in her face; she seems 
to be happy; she should not be; I do not under¬ 
stand it; it is a sign she is not well in her mind.” 

“Nonsense,” replied Gavron, “it is an excellent 
sign, and I am very glad to hear it.” But Henriette 
sighed. 

“The older she gets, Monsieur le Docteur” she 


296 


SURRENDER! 


said, “the more her mind goes back . . . Sometimes 
•to the days before she knew Monsieur Anson- 
Pond . . . she thinks she does not grow old because 
her spirit is young.” 

“Well, and how old has she grown?” asked the 
Doctor. 

“I do not know,” replied Henriette, “her mind is 
so young; and her face is still very beautiful, doctor, 
but her hair it is white; and I do not like her mind 
going back like that.” 

“It is not unusual,” answered Gavron, “doesn’t 
your mind ever go back, Henriette?” 

Henriette glanced up at him. “My mind, Mon¬ 
sieur le Docteur,” she vouchsafed, “for myself I 
have no mind, it all belongs to Madame. When 
Madame talks of her mother, I talk of her mother; 
when she talks of Mr. Anson-Pond, or you or little 
Davey—why, I talk of them; but she never talks 
of herself, Monsieur le Docteur , and for myself I 
do not talk of myself.” 

Her expectant ear caught the sound of a swish of 
skirts upon the stairs and she moved backwards. As 
Louise entered Henriette bowed her head so slightly 
and murmured, u Monsieur le Docteur . . . 
Madame,” and going slowly out closed the door 
gently behind her. 

“Why, Gavvy,” exclaimed Deloryse in a surprised 


SANCTUARY 297 

voice, holding out both her hands to him in greet¬ 
ing, “my dear Gavvy, what a surprise!” 

Gavron took both her hands in his own, and 
bowing, kissed them. 

“You are a greater surprise to me . . . you 
look . . . well,” he said laughing, “you know how 
well you look!” 

Louise motioned him to a chair and they sat 
down. 

“A woman has her eyes in the glass all the time, 
Gavvy,” she answered, “but she never knows how 
she looks until a man tells her. Come,” she went 
on, as Gavron laughed with her, “draw your chair 
closer to me and tell me. ... oh, everything. I am 
starved for news of the world, my world.” 

Gavron looked at her. “You are tired ?” he ques¬ 
tioned. 

“Yes,” answered Deloryse, “or rather, no, Didn’t 
Henriette tell you I had been resting?” She looked 
at him closely and put her hand upon his arm. “But 
it is good to see you again, Gavvy. It is you who 
must be tired after your long journey, but I cannot 
let you rest yet. You have not changed, Gavvy, 
you are the same, and you fill my mind with colored 
images grown gray in the memory. Just as in my 
very young days, Gavvy, at the seaside, I used to 
cut my name in the sand with a shell and the sea 
rippling in would fill the lines with water, and then 


298 SURRENDER! 

ripple back, leaving a faint impression of my name 
behind it; but that faint impression remained, 
Gavvy, a long time, for it lasted till the tide closed 
over it completely.” Louise paused and her eyes 
pondered for a moment as she gazed out towards the 
orchard beyond; and then suddenly she spoke again. 
“You remember, Gavvy,” she exclaimed, “the last 
time you were in my room in London, cold damp 
and wonderful London; you sat in a chaise longue, 
Gavvy, and talked to me.” 

“No, I don’t remember exactly,” answered 
Gavron, trying to press his mind back from the 
vision of the gray-haired, sweet-faced Louise before 
him to those days of the worldly triumphs of 
Deloryse the famous dancer. 

“Ah yes, you do,” said Louise impatiently, “you 
know it well!” 

Gavron stirred uneasily. 

“You ask me,” he answered contritely, “to bridge 
over almost a fifth of a century.” 

Louise smiled at him as one who could not under¬ 
stand such a lapse of memory. 

“It is like yesterday to me, that day,” she 
answered, “I wanted to die then; how I wanted to 
die! To get out of everything, and draw a veil for 
ever over the future. And you said, Gavvy, you 
said to me, T must live for the boy . . . ’ and,” she 
turned towards him, a patient expression upon her 


SANCTUARY 299 

tface, “I have lived, Gawy—for him, just as you told 
me . . . and I am glad to have lived.” 

Gavron leant forward a little in his chair. “The 
will to live, Louise,” he answered impulsively, “that 
is half the battle; it is because people don’t make 
use of that will power with which they are bom 
that the tragedies of the world go forward.” 

Louise smiled at him. 

“I suppose,” she answered, “that I showed a lack 
of that same will power in Paris those days during 
the war—my David too; but lack of will power 
brings happiness sometimes, Gavvy. It brought my 
son! So much time every day has been for him, 
during these solitary years. Every day I talk to 
him; every year. I celebrate his birthday. I have 
not seen him, Gavvy, but I know him. He was a 
child, and I was a child again with him. Regard my 
heart, Gavvy,” she exclaimed, parting her dress a 
little at the neck with her hand, “it is nearly twenty 
four years old; and it is the heart that counts. You 
cannot tell the age of a tree, Gavvy, until you have 
severed the trunk; neither, my Gavvy, can you tell 
the age of a woman till you have examined her 
heart; weak as mine is—as you told me so often, 
Gavvy, till I was tired of hearing you; I tell you 
there are but twenty-three rings round it, for that 
is my age.” 

Gavron laid a hand upon her arm. “And be sure, 


300 


SURRENDER! 


Louise,” he answered earnestly, “that Davey has felt 
your influence, for a finer young man doesn’t live 
than he.” 

Louise leaned forward eagerly. 

“Tell me more, Gawy,” she asked eagerly. “I 
talk with him, yes; I know him, yes; but my arms 
are empty, and my mind a wanderer. Make-believe, 
that is the game I play. I remember David trying 
to teach me poker, but I always felt a better card 
player, Gawy, when I held a “flush” in my hand, 
than when I had a broken one, and made believe.” 

Gavron pulled out his cigarette case, and lit a 
cigarette, his hand as he struck the match trembling 
a little as he replied—'“The boy is the Anson-Pond 
now, he answered, “the head of the great engineer¬ 
ing business. He always showed great promise as 
an engineer, and his father was very proud of him.” 

Louise sighed as she watched the cigarette smoke 
drift lazily out of the verandah. 

“Ah—was he?” she answered, “I am glad of that.” 

Gavron leant back a little in his chair. 

“Yes; he said to me just before he died, 'Tell 
Louise that I was proud of her boy.’ ” Gavron broke 
off suddenly, “But you know all that,” he said, “I 
wrote to you about it.” 

Louise waved her hand impatiently. 

“Yes, yes, you did,” she answered, “but I like to 
hear you say it; your voice is so much more convinc- 


SANCTUARY 


301 


ing than ycur letters, though you do not know how 
much they helped me, your letters, Gavvy; it was 
not easy to live my life at first.” 

Gavron looked around him. “You must find it 
lonely here,” he said. 

“No, no,” answered Deloryse, “I have Henriette.” 

Gavron threw away the remainder of his cigarette 
impatiently. 

“Be honest with me, Louise,” he said, “aren’t you 
lonely?” 

Louise smiled a little sadly. 

“Well, sometimes I am a little homesick for Eng¬ 
land,” she conceded, “but now I rest content—it is 
good to see you!” 

There was a moment’s silence between them and 
then Gavron, taking one of her small thin hands in 
both his own, said gently- 

“I wonder if you would come to England—to me! 
You and I, my dear, are past the days of ordinary 
marriage, but love is not measured by the years. 
We have reached the autumn of life; the fireside, the 
book, a pair of slippers—and an infinite understand¬ 
ing; they will be the basis of our marriage. I should 
like to look after you ... to care for you—if you 
will come to me.” 

Louise turned to him with a smile full of com¬ 
passion and sweetness. 

“My friend,” she answered, “I am sorry,”—and 


302 


SURRENDER! 


her voice trembled as she added after a moment’s 
pause, "I shall always feel sorry.” 

Gavron gently released her hand and walked 
across to the window where he stood looking out into 
the garden; and whilst he stood there Louise con¬ 
tinued softly, "I am a woman—who should know it 
better than you—who built her castle upon a quick¬ 
sand, and the quicksand swallowed it up—my castle 
of love! There remains nothing but the ever 
moving sands. Now that you are here, I do not 
notice your gray hairs,—I say to myself; 'Here is 
my friend, the young doctor/ and my eyes search the 
sands to build again my castle which disappeared so 
swiftly. I am a fool, Gavvy, but I am a woman, 
and my mind seeks always among the ruins of dear 
remembered things. What would you?” 

"I am sorry,” he answered, "forget all I said. I 
should have known better . . . but”—Louise im¬ 
pulsively interrupted him . . . 

"Ah, no,” she said, "it is wonderful for me to have 
you; and, though we can never come to the age of 
marriage, Gavvy, we have come to the age of friend¬ 
ship; perhaps, who knows, a better age for both of 
us. Let us rest there, mon ami , it is a very com¬ 
fortable milestone at the side of a very hard road. 
You will remain—my friend, my very dear friend.” 
She paused a moment and then went on, while 
Gavron continued to look out of the window upon 


SANCTUARY 


303 

the garden below. “And if sometimes when the fire 
burns low, and the moon has hidden her face behind 
a bank of clouds, I go back, poor fool that I am, to 
tread upon the treacherous quicksands, and look for 
my castle, you will not mind, Gavvy, will you? You 
know, it was my life, that began only when I built 
it, and finished when the sands lay bare. You only 
are left to me; you—and Henriette; you were with 
me and saw the castle disappear; you will watch 
with me again, my friend—sometimes?” 

Gavron recovered himself with difficulty, and turn¬ 
ing said somewhat stiffly in his effort to conceal his 
emotion-- 

“I have waited and been near you as your friend, 
and if I can have no greater privilege than that, 

well-” he paused and spread his hands out before 

him. 

Louise leant towards him. 

“But you will remain my friend,” she implored. 

Gavron came quickly towards her; he looked 
suddenly older, but his voice was firm as he answered 
her. 

“I shall always,” he said, taking her hands in his 
and raising them to his lips, “be your humble and 
devoted servant.” He paused and hesitated a 
moment as he straightened himself up and looked 
down at her. “But,” he continued awkwardly, “I 


304 


SURRENDER! 


did not come all this way to talk of myself. I had 
a better reason for my journey.” 

Louise smiled at him. 

“There could be no better reason, Gavvy,” she 
returned firmly. 

“That/’ said Gavron returning a little to his 
former suave self, “is very charmingly said, but I 
must make way for a better man than myself,” and 
turning abruptly on his heel he went out on to the 
verandah and down the path which wound round to 
the front door, leaving Louise alone and wondering. 

After a moment he returned, and there followed 
him into the room a young man of some twenty- 
three years. 

“Permit me, madame,” said Gavron. 

Louise half rose in her seat and stared at the young 
man before her. 

“David,” she cried, before Gavron could finish; 
for one fleeting moment it seemed that her old lover 
stood before her, so strong was the likeness. Gavron 
watched her anxiously to see how she would bear 
the shock of seeing Davey again; then satisfied that 
all was well, he quitted the room by way of the 
verandah leaving them together. 

David stood before her a trifle awkwardly, and 
answered in a surprised voice. 

“You know me, madame?” 

Louise motioned him to a chair. 


SANCTUARY 


305 


“You are so like your father/’ she said faintly; 
and she followed every movement of his whilst he 
was seating himself. 

David embarrassed, turned shyly towards her. 
“Madame Deloryse,” he said, “will, I hope, forgive 
this sudden intrusion by an entire stranger.” 

“Stranger,” repeated Louise faintly, as she looked 
at the clean shaven face and into the brown eyes of 
the boy who was the image of her lover, while 
David twiddled his cap nervously between his 
fingers. 

“My mother,” he explained, “asked me to come.” 

The expression on Louise’s face softened as she 
repeated softly “Your mother?” David glanced at 
her and then looked away again. 

“My mother,” he went on sadly, “is dead.” 

Louise moved a hand slowly till it rested on his 
arm. “Mrs. Anson-Pond dead?” she said in a low 
voice, “the doctor did not tell me . . . my poor 
boy!” 

David turned towards her eagerly. 

“You knew my mother well,” he hazarded, and 
Louise paused a moment before she answered. 

“Well? Yes! ... Oh yes . . . in other days, 

very well. Did she say-” and then she stopped 

to begin again abruptly. “Why did she send you to 
me?” 

David looked at her earnestly. “One of the last 


306 


SURRENDER! 


things my mother said to me,” he replied, “was 
‘Find Madame Deloryse, and when you have found 
her, you will have found” . . . Louise interrupted 
him. 

“Yes,” she repeated in a soft voice, “you will have 
found . . .” 

“Your best friend,” continued David, watching 
the eager and yet placid face in front of him. 

Louise, outwardly calm, had awaited the answer 
with an anxiety she could scarcely conceal. She had 
not known what Mrs. Anson-Pond might have told 
him; she did not know now whether she was glad 
the secret had been so faithfully kept; she did not 
know whether she herself would not in a moment 
disclose the truth. Her whole being ached to cry 
out “I am your mother, David.” Now at last after 
long waiting had come her opportunity: here was 
the recompense for her sacrifice; her lover was dead, 
Mrs. Anson-Pond was dead, and David was hers 
once again. 

Her arms half stretched themselves out towards 
him, this big dark man who when she had last seen' 
him was a curly-haired boy of four years ... He 
was her son! But as her mind considered this 
stranger, she gradually crushed the impulse to claim 
him as her own, and the yearning to embrace him, 
which had drawn out her arms towards him, w T as 


SANCTUARY 307 

suppressed by her restraint which had become a 
force through the practice of long years. 

Her instinct told her that it was best that way. 

Tall, good-looking, with a proud upright bearing, 
he seemed to her to have grown into a young edition 
of his father; she had meant him, always intended 
him to be an Englishman like his father; and that 
was what he had become. There was nothing of 
her in her son; he was an Anson-Pond; ‘the Anson- 
Pond’ Gavvy had called him, ‘head of the big 
engineering business/ What had she to do with 
him? He was proud of his position; proud of his 
father and of her whom he thought to be his 
mother. They had guarded the secret well; and 
Louise realized that they and Davey himself had 
unconsciously raised a barrier against her which she 
would never be able to break down. He was sad, 
this stranger who was her son, but he was content; 
he had mapped out his life’s work; he had succeeded 
to a name and a great business; she could not take 
that heritage away from him; for that would be 
what her avowal would effect. Another sacrifice 
#was being demanded of her; she must give up her 
son again. It seemed to her that this was harder 
to bear than when she had parted with him those 
many years ago. 

Slowly she let her arms drop back into her lap, 
and whilst her heart beat fiercely with the knowl- 


308 


SURRENDER! 


edge that this man was her son, and her spirit cried 
out within her to acknowledge him, her mind, con¬ 
vinced of the harm she would bring to him by so 
doing forced her to repeat slowly after him. 

“Yes, she was right, your . . . mother. I am 
your best friend.” 

It was done, it was over; she could not go back 
upon that; and after all was she not David’s best 
friend? 

She brushed away the tears which filled her eyes 
and strove to concentrate her thoughts on what 
David was saying. “Gavvy had told him where to 
find her,” he said, “and his mother had sent a 
message to her” . . . his mother! 

“A message?” she found herself repeating, per¬ 
haps after all the sacrifice was to be unnecessary. 
Mrs. Anson-Pond might have told him. She must 
have the message. 

Yes, and what was that?” she heard her voice 
asking, and David leant nearer to her. 

“She asked me to say,” he said, “that she had 
tried to bring me up to be like my father in all 
things, she thought the knowledge of that would 
please you more than anything else.” 

Louise realized he had ceased speaking; so that 
was all Mrs. Anson-Pond had. said; there was to 
be no escape! Away, far away, sped her mind. 
Like his father, * like her lover; that was good of 


SANCTUARY 


309 


Mrs. Anson-Pond; yes, that did please her; he was 
like his father; just as his father used to be in 
Paris; those dear irresponsible days in Paris; so 
her thoughts jostled themselves together in her 
brain; but paramount above them all, lending a 
dullness to her eager eyes was the realization that 
she too must keep the secret. 

Louise stirred slightly and recovered herself, and 
then as though recalling some dim and distant 
memory she spoke again. 

“Ah yes,” she said, “I am very happy you have 
succeeded your father. The Doctor told me.” 

David's eyes lit up as he replied. “My father 
would have been awfully disappointed if I hadn't 
liked engineering.” 

“But you do,” said Louise quickly, remembering 
the Eiffel Tower he had wanted to make those many 
years ago. 

“Rather,” answered David impulsively. “ I must 
have inherited the talent from him,” and Louise 
nodded towards him as she heard the echo of her 
own words, uttered twenty years ago, coming back 
to her. 

There was a slight pause, for David, his shyness 
overcoming him again, had relapsed into silence. 

“It is curious,” he said hesitatingly, after a 
moment, “but father had a quaint idea that my 


310 


SURRENDER! 


success in life was some sort of monument he was 
building to a memory.” 

“Did he say that?” asked Louise softly, recalling 
her long forgotten words to him just before he had 
left her for ever. 

“Yes, repeatedly,” answered David, eagerly once 
more, seeing that she was interested. 

“Especially when I was slack or bungled some¬ 
thing. I thought perhaps,” he continued diffidently, 
“it might have had something to do with the Great 
War. Was it then that you knew him, Madame?” 

Louise startled at the unexpected question. 

“I—I—” she stammered. “Why do you ask 
that?” 

David hesitated a moment. 

“He would never talk to me,” he replied apolo¬ 
getically, “about the Great War; and I grew fanci¬ 
ful about it. I knew he was in it, but . . .” 

Louise interrupted him impulsively. 

“He was a very brave soldier, your father,” she 
exclaimed, and David, as he rose to his feet, mur¬ 
mured under his breath, “Good old Dad”. Louise 
heard him and caught her breath. David turned 
round quickly on hearing her start. 

“What is it, Madame?” he asked anxiously. 

Louise smiled at him. 

“It is nothing,” she said, “you—are—so like your 
father; it is difficult to believe he is gone, and that 


SANCTUARY 


311 


you are his son. You will not mind,” she continued 
gently, “if I call you David. I only take the 
privilege of an old woman.” 

David laughed at her as he stood looking down 
at her seated form. 

“You . . . old?” he said, “why you’re just a 
young woman with a silver halo.” He paused and 
then half whispering, he continued, “the great De- 
loryse, the famous dancer.” 

Louise held up her hand with a mocking gesture. 
“Ah,” she said, “not that any more.” 

David smiled at her and then growing serious once 
more he resumed his seat and leaning forward said 
to her. “Do you know, I expect you’ll laugh at me, 
but I’ve been weaving a romance about you and 
father and mother.” 

Louise did not laugh at him as he imagined she 
would, but instead she looked at him with her eyes 
askance . . . had he then guessed the secret in spite 
of all their precautions? 

“A romance,” she repeated breathlessly, “tell me 
what kind of romance?” 

David laughed self-consciously, and moved his 
hands together nervously. 

“It seems strange to me,” he said at last, looking 
at her, “and I’ve thought about it a good deal.” 

“What seems strange?” asked Louise in a quiet 
voice. 


312 


SURRENDER! 


“Why,” answered David earnestly, “that you 
should have been such a great friend of both my 
father and mother, and that I should not know you, 
and never should have known you if my mother 
hadn't sent me here.” 

That was true, how painfully true, thought Louise 
•—he, her son, would never have known her—and 
she sighed as she returned his look. 

“And what,” she questioned softly, “do you 
imagine to have been the story of your father, your 
. . . mother, and myself?” 

David laughed once more frankly and easily. 

“Oh, I'm no story-teller,” he said, “I'm sure it's 
nothing like it . . . you'll tell me the truth, won't 
you?” 

Now that he had asked her, Louise knew that 
she would never tell him; the secret was hers and 
Gavvy’s and Henriette's. Gavvy had not told him; 
she would not tell him, and Henriette must not tell 
him. 

“Tell me your idea,” she said smiling bravely, 
“and I will tell you whether it is true or not.” 

“Well,” answered David after a moment, “of 
course it’s nothing like it really, but I thought 
perhaps when my mother and you were young, you 
were friends, great friends . . . and then you be¬ 
came a great dancer and my mother a society 
woman; then my father came along and,” David 


SANCTUARY 


313 


hesitated and then said softly, “you were both in 
love with him . . . and:—he married my mother.” 

Louise looked at him for the moment and then 
away again. 

“You are right,” she whispered drily, “he married 
your mother.” 

Then in a hurried voice David continued— 

“And you,” he said, “not trusting yourself to be 
near him and not wanting to break your friendship 
with my mother went away. You still remained 
friends, but you never returned to England and 
stayed in France all by yourself.” As if moved by 
the thought of her loneliness David put out his hand 
till it rested lightly on her arm and Louise stirred a 
little uneasily underneath his touch. 

But the mood only lasted a moment with him, 
and giving her a gentle pat he took back his hand 
and laughing said— 

“Of course I’m all wrong, but perhaps you’ll tell 
me where I’ve gone off the rails. For we’re going to 
be great friends, you know, and,” he shook his 
finger at her playfully, “we shouldn’t start with 
a secret.” 

Louise relieved at his change of tone smiled at 
him and nodded. 

“You are a good story-teller,” she said, “for your 
father and I were great friends—and your mother 
too. It is,” she continued a little apologetically, 


314 


SURRENDER! 


“the same old story, and it is not a difficult one to 
guess, but she has sent you to me, and so it all ends 
happily.” 

David still looked at her inquiringly, and so she 
protested once again. 

“Yes, c’est vrai, he married your mother,” she 
reiterated, “and,” she continued with an effort, “she 
gave him—you. Your father was right, quite right 
about everything.” David looked at her in a puzzled 
way when she had finished. 

“You know,” he said, “I am beginning to feel as 
if I had known you all my life; I seem to remember 
when I was a very little fellow the sound of a 
French accent, and do you know the first time I 
went to Paris somehow I felt quite at home there.” 
He paused. “It’s very strange, isn’t it?” he asked. 

But nothing seemed strange to Louise now; she 
had made the plunge and already she was beginning 
to feel better. 

“Strange?” she answered. “There are many 
strange things in this world, David. Who knows, 
perhaps in a former life you were a Frenchman; 
and perhaps we knew each other then.” 

“Yes,” said David laughing and relieved to see 
her in a happier mood, “perhaps that is the explana¬ 
tion. But now we really do know each other we 
must make up for lost time. You see, it is I who 
am alone in the world now, just like you have been. 


SANCTUARY 


315 


But I haven’t got the courage to remain alone as 
you had, and so I am going to ask you, madame, to 
help me.” 

“In what way?” asked Louise. 

“By leaving your solitary comer and joining 
mine,” laughed David, “and we will keep one 
another company.” 

“You mean . . .?” gasped Louise. 

“I feel,” went on David quickly, “that that is 
what Mother would have wished; and I wish it too. 
I am too old to look after myself properly—it is 
only the young who can do that.” 

Louise then realized that after all the tragedy of 
living which to her had seemed a greater tragedy 
than death, was truly to bring its own recompense; 
and the aftermath was not to be the bitter thing 
she had expected, but sweeter than she had ever 
imagined. 

“David,” she said to him, as she rose to her feet, 
“do you really mean it?” 

“Mean it?” repeated David, “I was in a panic lest 
you would refuse, Madame; after all there was no 
reason why you should accept, save for your friend¬ 
ship with my mother and father.” 

“That,” replied Louise earnestly, “will serve as a 
sufficient reason.” 

“Then you will come back with me to London?” 
asked David joyfully. 


316 


SURRENDER! 


‘'Whenever you like,” said Louise laughing. 

“Thank you, Madame,” answered David, “but,” 
he continued, “I cannot call you Madame, it is too 
distant.” 

“And what else,” asked Deloryse smiling a little 
sadly, “would you call an old woman like me?” 

David considered a moment and then he asked 
her. 

“Did you not say you were my best friend?” 

“Yes, David, always that!” answered Louise. 

“Then,” said David triumphantly, “I shall call 
you ‘Grande Amie’” 

Louise held out both her hands to him and as he 
took them she drew him towards her and kissed 
him. 

“Grande Amie ” she repeated proudly, “now we 
are en fete.” She put him gently away from her 
and touched the bell behind her. 

“We will see what has happened to Gavvy,” she 
said, “and after I have made arrangements with 
Henriette for our lunch, we will talk of the future. 
Of course, you do not know Henriette. Ah! she has 
been a very good friend to me!” 

“I should like to know her,” answered David, “if 
she has been a good friend to you, Grande Amie” 

And as he answered, Henriette appeared in answer 
to the bell. She started involuntarily as her gaze 
t u P on the face of David, and turned a pleading 


SANCTUARY 


317 

look towards Louise, who simultaneously gave her 
a warning glance; and summoning all her strength 
to control the trembling of her lips and breaking 
voice, made an imperative gesture as she said 
quickly: 

“You do not know this gentleman, Henriette”; 
adding proudly, “He is Mr. David Anson-Pond.” 
And Henriette slowly curtsied to the gentleman. 






I 















<. 











c 































